He speaks his confession like a prayer. The passionate, hushed words of the condemned.

Condemned before he ever opened his mouth-
by the color of skin,
by his orientation.

His confession begins:
I still love the man who left me.
My heart is broken wide.
I’m left flailing.
Can’t he see?
Why doesn’t he see?

But his pain produces beauty still.

His confession-a poem-is beautiful.

His love-a ruined thing-touches my heart.
His confession leaves me wondering:
To be so vulnerable, surely that is true strength.

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