A poem by Biko McMillan

Mirrors seem to laugh at me every time I pass by them.
It’s almost as if they know every lie I’ve told while trying to show off the me that I’m not.
Oh, to be me again,
        or rather,
Oh, to be me for the first time

    Society tends to be fascinated with me
        But only insofar as they can tell me what the fuck to do and how to do it.
He wants to get to know the skeletons in his closet.
        Before he becomes dead to those who can’t accept them.
He wants to know what love is.
But can’t. Yet. Or feels that he shouldn’t. Or feels that he can’t.
        Because his love is not okay to them. His being is not okay to them.
So he hides behind phone apps.
And confuses normal infatuation with judgement lapse.
Maybe if he keeps busy,
        he wont have to acknowledge the truth.
He might be different.
                But is he really?