I bite the bitter leaves
Of the tree that grows in my backyard.
I pick up the yellow ones,
Dying and pretending to be
Beautiful,
Both.
I hear her speak,
In that familiar accent.
She laughs aloud;
A shrill pitch in her voice.
Deep red lipstick on her lips.
A little more flare in her hair.
Her eyes beam as she talks.
I look at myself,
Then I look at her.
I was more real
With the leaves I hold on to.
She plucks flowers
From my backyard.
I feel sorry
Both for the flower
And her.
Fake, I called her once
And made her cry.
He called her beautiful.
I looked at her again,
And that made me cry.
“Are you a lesbian?” A friend of mine once asked me mockingly when we were discussing about my aversion from some (“some” not “all”) kind of men. “No. But does it matter?” I asked her scornfully. No, I wasn’t bothered that I was asked a question about my sexuality. But what I didn’t understand was that is being a lesbian a matter to be jeered about? What if I was one? Wouldn’t I be hurt and embarrassed that my sexuality was just mocked at? Why are the words “gay” or “lesbian” used as slangs? Another incident, that took place a couple of years back, was when I was teasing two girl friends of mine, accusing them of having an affair. I considered it as normal as teasing a guy and a girl. One of them found it so disrespectful that she, instead of simply denying the fact, chided that she isn’t of such “third class” standard. I later discussed the small argument that we had, with her, trying to make my point that being a lesbian or a transgender doesn’t define anyone’s cla
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