Boys will be boys.
Tell that to the bruises on my back.
Blue, purple, black.
Don’t listen to them.
How can I not?
Faggot, pansy, fairy.
It gets better.
That reassurance was a lie.
Things never got better.
Just sticks and stones.
These broke my bones.
Kill yourself, queer.
He was such a talented boy.
It’s a shame I’m not still.
Dead, buried, gone.
"When witches were burned in the middle ages,
the Inquisitors ordered the good burghers
(all of them men, of course)
to scour the jungle for jailed queers
drag them out and tie them together in bundles,
mix them in with bundles of wood
at the feet of the women,
and set them on fire
to kindle a flame
foul enough for a witch to burn in
The sticks of wood in bundles like that
were called faggots
and that’s what they called the queers; too,
and call us still,
meaning our extinction, our complete
anthrocide and gynocide their one response to
any heretical blasphemy against
a god-given manliness.”
A poem by the Flaming Faggots Collective. Quoted from Dennis Altman, Homosexual: Oppression and Liberation, 1993, p. 52, first published in 1971.