the sun blinds us all

our love is courage,
and maybe it is God,
like my body could never be on its own.
we hold the line,
and we fend off the world together,
but still,
cold stares and hot glares
keep our fingers from intertwining where eyes can see us.
there are some who ask,
“how can you be afraid of what you are?”
we manage,
i want to say.
it is easy to fear what you do not understand,
even when it comes from your own bones,
and your own heart.
and it is so easy to fall in love
when your love is forbidden.
my mother used to tell me that one day,
i would marry man who loved me very much.
i wanted to tell her that i saw a girl
who was so beautiful,
i dreamt of holding her hand,
but i stayed quiet.
fear has a way of keeping my jaw tightly clenched
on secrets that dangle my safety over an ocean of emptiness
and my own broken heart.
i speak a language of secrets now,
that i learned when i was a child.
lies come to my lips
easier than truth does.
so i make my own shields,
and armor,
and swords.
they are built out of your hands,
and our love,
and my own kind of god.
there is so much in my head,
and in my eyes.
the sun blinds us all.
sometimes i am a soldier,
keeping secrets for my head,
and for my heart.
i carry lies in the shape of grenades and matches,
that could set my home ablaze.
i hold the deadliest ones closest to my heart,
so if they go,
i go too.
i don’t hold myself like i used to,
but at least i know where i stand on my own.
my dearest friend once whispered to me
in the (harsh/dull) light of a classroom,
“Classifications are for soldiers.”
am i a soldier anymore?
Classifications are not for lost children.
how could i know?
i was eight when i held hands with a girl on the swing set,
on the playground,
in the classroom during reading time.
her hand was soft,
and we were young,
and i learned how to keep my mouth shut
when i came home that day.
there are those who say,
in spat words and scornful voices,
“that kind of love is not for children.”
i want to say,
aren’t we children too?
how young can i be and still be called dirty?
i was eight then,
i am sixteen now,
and still, i know no better.
i am taller now,
and angrier,
and more afraid than ever before.
aren’t we children too?
or are we just soldiers?

there is so much in my head,
and in my heart.
the sun blinds us all.