I Knew

The creases at his mouth
are hard now.
I know, I know
the scar,
the plum painted bruises,
the subtle twitch of one end
of the left eye.
The"conversion therapy" hush
hushed down high school hallways,
blown away into the wind and pulled inward.

I know how the priests all prayed him
to hell,
how this fag must die,
and the kids all screamed and ran and
he must be isolated, he must be corrected,
for he is wrong.
But he must still be wrong, because
I kissed him and felt a crease
relax for a second,
and I knew.

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