coup-de-coeur

step through the door to begin the tour. to your left, you can see children being taught history. don’t mind the soaking books, that’s just bleach. quit your looks, we wouldn’t want them to get any ideas, would we? oh, those ripped pages? don’t worry your pretty head, it’s just what women did. not that important, now, is it? after all, this is the ministry approved curriculum, and we can’t be blamed if the bare minimum simply includes white men. glossing over unpleasant parts is us thinking about poor hearts. genocide is an ugly word, we wouldn’t want to tarnish our beautiful country, right? that

let us imagine. she's fourteen years old. her step-father decided to get better acquainted with her between the sheets. she clutches her womb and heaves over a chipped sink. no, she's twenty-three years old. a stranger in an alley saw her beauty and he was no longer human. she tries to scrub him away in the shower, bleeding. no, he's seventeen years old. life is growing in the womb he wishes he didn't have but he does. he clenches hands into bloody pulp and grits teeth into dust. no, she's thirty eight years old. mother of three, she works two jobs to put food on the table and her husband is gone. she cries at night because she is lost.

 on august 5th, 1992, steve macklin was savagely assaulted because of his homosexuality. eight metal plates and thirty eight screws were needed to hold his face together. welcome to another wednesday in the world of clenching fists and looking over shoulders, of jumping at shadows but wishing we could melt into them. welcome to the world of percentages, of casual statistics and ritual dehumanization. welcome to being queer. welcome to "faggot", to "no homo", to "that's so gay. welcome to yet another day of tongue-biting, of instinct-fighting and poem-writing. welcome to broken noses, slammed locker doors and fading bruises. welcome

i was born 4425 miles away from here in a country rich with history that is starting to disappear. to add insult to injury, centuries-old castles are crumbling, falling away like our citizens and tragically few are stumbling, not even a backwards glance. me? i left over ten years ago, an anniversary marked on the calendar, a reminder to not look back, just go. pretend there never was danger. pretend that we all have a better life. pretend that our hearts are here. pretend this is the direction in which to steer. pretend there is no resentment. pretend. my mother left behind a doctorate, my parents left behind a life of strife, but we have

 xiv. smile my fingers tighten upon the scalpel, my lungs heave with laborious breaths, and i get ready for the first cut. a y incision is aptly named. it makes you question, but there's no answer to the                   why? of life. your skin comes apart easily, revealing your heart and rib cage, and i get a feeling of déjà vu because i know you inside out. i thought your heart would be still beating because you're flushed, you look so alive. i keep the scalp cut for last, and it's with trepidation that i pull your skin and finally hide that smile that's forever frozen on lips that i used to kiss. in handwriting t

 xiii. misfortune my lover says, "breaking mirrors is seven years of bad luck" so we do not have any mirrors in our house, and check our appearance in each other's eyes. my lover says, "a black cat crossing your path is not good" so we have a dog and no cat, and i make sure to shoo the neighbour's kitten away so my lover doesn't see the shadow in our garden. my lover says, "opening an umbrella inside is bringing the bad luck inside" so we both use raincoats and the soaked floor is no longer a problem, because we're both soaked to the bone. my lover tries to ward off bad luck,          because all the bad luck my lover needs is me.

 xii. insanity  have you ever taken   a walk in the midst of a crowd and looked over                your shoulder more than you did towards     your future?     paranoia is not a pretty    thing, and it's a shame  that the colour suits        so many people. so i twitch and try  to stand up and close my fists but that just    makes my palms bleed, and i have no more space   for crescent scars              anyway. if i shy away like a wild    horse, it's just because no one has tamed my mind       yet, not even i            myself.

today, i stood next to your casket, tears streaming in a waterfall, enough to water all the flowers that people had brought you. i keep your picture in my wallet, but i never look at it, because i don't think my heart can bear another crack. what you don't know is that when they'll bury you monday, 17th, 2013, my heart will be thrown into the hole, and they'll pile dirt upon it. maybe it'll staunch the bleeding. people say that when you die, people who loved you keep a piece of you in their hearts. i don't think so. i think you take a piece of our heart, and i am afraid that one day                            i won't have any pieces

 i am 5'10 barefooted, and the 5" heels i wear are to make boys like you insecure about women like me. i only want the clicking of my heels to be like a time bomb for you, signaling the end of everything. my lipstick doesn't stain, and my nail polish doesn't chip, and everything about me is made to be perfect. so look over your shoulder and sleep with one eye open because one of these days, i   will         rule               the    world.