two boys holding hands.
spread across the bed,
the picture of teen love.
they both wear smiles,
their youthful eyes glinting in the
golden summer sun.
in storms a man,
one of their fathers.
ignorant of their love, their happiness,
he sees only their genders.
he sees them as abominations,
worthy of hell's fiery gates.
he yells at the boys,
calling them all sorts of names,
each word paired with
the scent of whiskey.
tears streak down the son's face,
and his lover watches in worry.
the father smacks his son,
leaving a red welt on his cheek.
the tears come harder and faster,
like salty waterfalls.
the father staggers out of their room,
slamming the door behind him.
"shhh," the lover coos,
"I've got you."
he continues to rub up and down
the son's back,
as if he's not terrified of being outed.
he places a gentle kiss on the son's cheek,
checking the welt the father had left.
the world is a warzone for love like ours,
and we have to wonder if each word
will be a bullet whizzing by.
not being able to hold the hand of the man you love in public,
knowing that the world may not have room for love like ours.
and so we keep it in private,
hoping others don't stumble in,
discovering our fatal secret.