by Joel Groomer

Up-turned noses

turned away

from a droopy,

dreary,

soggy-salty face.

The face's crime was innocence.

The face's crime was love.

The punishment—

abandonment,

belittlement—

a compliment to the

down-looking

looking down

eyes

of a society

built specifically

on freedom

free from fear

by people who fear freedom

for what freedom truly means.

This isolation cakes him

like a drippy,

drooling,

soggy-sour mess—

unpleasant to look at,

but bewildering to behold.

This separation stunts hum

as any untreated external affliction would.

He goes to school

eager to learn

till that eagerness is ended

by the black eyes staring back from the mirror.

And even if the body's safe,

safety can't be guaranteed, because

what's in must eventually come out.

And he tries to be different,

but tries not to stand out.

And he tries to be Proud,

but tries not to cry.

He can't turn back

the backs turned

on him,

so he is forced to find

a new family not forced to get along—

a family of friends.

And friends of the family

are never told why

their son hasn't been seen

with a seeable feminine friend.

Up-turned noses

turned away

from a droopy,

dreary,

soggy-salty face.

The face's crime was innocence

(an innocence stripped away).

The face's crime was love

(a love not understood).

The punishment—

forever to endeavor

to find a freedom free from fear

by telling you what it's like

to be young

(and like me).