I was not your lap dog-
your welcoming bitch-
at your feet the moment you broke the silence
with the shuffling of your scuffed soles.
I did not greet you with a curved lip and fluid tongue.
I did not sing your praise;
I did not embibe your love.
I did not resort to promise knowing you-
You would “upgrade”
to perform that same robotic dance
layered in leopard print and haughty sweat
that society claimed would make you more of a man.
A love no longer sacred,
it was blasphemous.
And from that cross
spewed your tears, your blood.
You are now the bastard child;
I did not marvel at your fall-
I anticipated it, invoked it,
and mercy was blessed upon me.
This weather-beaten face,
aged not by stress, but determination,
has forever shown signs of victory-
has proved Zeno wrong, wrong, wrong!
