Black Looks - Including an African LGBTIQ+ Archive

Black Britain, Poetry

Growing Up

You shiver not from the ice cold chill of winter white deep in you bones,
You stand there rooted with eyes wandering lost in their sullen sockets,
You can’t find words to call me by my name so you call me scores, yours,
Your fear dances jaundiced jigs across your impassioned face, pace by pace,
You perambulate in those hood-winked footsteps that defy believe, sore, grief,
You congregate at every grocery, newsagents, cafés to catch the word, the sword
You raise your phobic voice four octaves above normal to draw passing attention,
You loose your tongue by moving so fast as to sink your teeth into me, into me,
You rally support of like-minded phobics all foaming at the mouth en mass,
You shout sick vengeance at the amber glow of age old curtains, deranged
You tear my virgin hair out of my scalp in protest because yours is receding,
You lump me together with the down and out for daring to be myself,
You, with pained and questioning eyes, you put out a victory cry to hide your failings
You cast your eyes inward lost and tormented when I walk by,
Every time I walk by you hear incomprehension in your mind’s ear: dum, dum, dum!
Don’t blame me for the unanswered questions nobody answered for you, growing up.