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.
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