This year, I came out as Bi. And I’m not sure what to do:

It’s as though I’ve got an “Admit One” to an Identity Zoo.

My insides are on display as I park on a bench nearby,

and by-stand an aviary filled with feathers meant to fly.

I stand to press my hands against a fence that keeps color out of reach

and every sign [from my youth] asks me not to feed the beasts.

There’s a hefty swirl of incense where acceptance ought to be,

crucifixion crosses that tower over me.

“You can be a mommy or a nun” mother once implied,

planting unconscious worth, tucked nice and neat inside.

So here I am, I’m out as Bi, and I don’t know what to do;

yet I’m growing in my confidence as I write this poem to you.