I am the Bright dead Thing.

With age, my queerness fills and expands, growing more restless.

The hiding is tiring.

If by accident or exhaustion, it's now all on the table now.

A spilled glass stitching itself with blood reds and drunken rainbow into a white table cloth.

“It’s a mess,” my mother says;

My father’s low growl thunders and quiets a room in seconds

“How could you do this to us? I’d rather be childless than father a beast.”

The interrogation begins

I am pink and blue-faced with apologies as I hold the hands of family, mourning myself with them but only as a ghost.

I’d rather pronounce myself dead than stand queer and tall.

For some, being named faggot or tranny is a death sentence.

Literal or metaphorical.

We are all bright dead things.

Now when named monster I will growl back until the dining room is empty and the table cloth anew. Colorful and bright.

I thought forever I’d sit alone an animal fighting for a seat at a now quiet table

but as time went on, others came to fill the spaces, some old faces choosing to come back and some new.

I am the cuffed hoofed beast, half me and half-human, undesirable and indigestible. My colors poison to all those that wish me harm but glory of expressive love to those who wish to stay.

The table is now welcoming and colorful

A place of interrogation turned into a feast of acceptance. I am still the bright dead thing but a bit less dead and much more bright.