Eschatology (It's Okay, Welcome Home)

I always knew that the higher power you answer to
Would always drown out the sounds of my calling
I don't fully understand the eschatalogical motivations
That stir your actions
All I know is that when they stirred your hatred for me

I thought my world was ending.

An apocalyptic mess.

Four horsemen galloping gallantly into the fray
Until their faces fall away into the hungry Pestilence
The maggot infested Death with worms crawling from
his sockets

Our vision is always distorted by the wriggling reminders of our wrongdoing.

The blade of Conquest -- hilt fashioned from the skulls of men
who thought their biological disposition was a sin.
Whose emotional attachment they could not detach from the
judgment of stony words.

I don't know what agenda we set forth to wage War on society as we know it.
I missed that meeting.
I don't understand why you designated me as a vector for disease.
In my experience, my hands have always been washed clean
By the salty tears that come with the isolation and persecution of
being what is known as a sexual deviation.

I have seen myself as broken more times than I'd like to admit

A biological uselessness.
A religious threat.

You compound my anxiety, my anxiety, my anxiety--
My anxiety is unmedicated.
It is ameliorated by the momentary shifts of sef-concept that remind me
That who I am is ok.
Who you are is ok.
If I ever hear the phrase
Coming to terms with my sexuality ever again
I will lose my brain.
The word term implies temporary.

I am not temporary.
Stop treating me like a fucking phase.
Stop treating this like a fucking phase.
Stop treating yourself like a fucking phase
To be dealt with.

It is not my place to tell you how to feel
Or mold you into a shape that I think is your most real.
My hands, and mouth are clumsy
You would not turn out the right way.

But it's ok.
It's ok to say you're gay.
I know - the word got caught in the back of my throat the first time
I felt my heart and understood my brain.

My goal - as cliche stands - is a rainbow waiting to reach some pot-of-gold
to find that the passed 5 years are worth it.
That the waiting is worth it.
That the patience is worth it.
That we are all worth it.

Regardless of what any book says, the only reading that needs to be done
is upon the braille on your skin - every bruise and scar is a story of affirmation
Branching out from a narrative of post-apocalyptic desolation that has left you
veiled in the illusion that you are alone.

You are not alone.
We are not alone.

Home is only a ribcage away
And beating of the heart is the knocking on the door.

My door is always open and the doorbell rings
Welcome home.