Hands in Pockets

O how I wish I had pockets to hide my fidgeting hands.

This town whose quaint and cloying air constricts and stares, breathing down my neck their unspoken questions of Why I am So Different.

Why don’t you feel at home in Our Perfect Town where only our kind are welcome? 

Our One True God.

Our One True Sexuality.

Our Choices Alone.

Our Judgments.

I wish I had pockets in which to store my fears and feeble hopes that I will wake one day to find you changed.

Your adulterated acceptance.  Forgotten tolerance. Laid bare.

Your dreams are not my dreams.

If I could just have a pocket in which to hide my hands.

There is a cleansing moment as the sun crests the rooftops of the neatly antiquated rows on your main street and the few welcoming arms give over in friendship and caramel delight.

A moment where my hands clasped around this cup of mirth are busy and have something friendlier to do.

Less fearful and more awakened to your call.

I can almost forget your hatred, as it rained down in my heart, replaced momentarily with warmth.

I’ll hold my armour off a little while.

And let my hands relax.

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