Plastic Bins

I’ve been
Called “faggot”
Enough
To know that
There’s no family
For a man like me
Unworthy
Of anything but
Blood and spit

Even when I take
Their brunt
Of insults thrown
Too easily
As forms of love
Kept ignorant
From the ones
Who said
They care

So detachment
Fuels relief
Where anger
Is better managed
As a loathing
Rife with secrets
Which startles
This aching
Soul

Pining
For better days
Or times
When hate
Left silent
Was seething
All the while
Though trinkets bought
Were gold

Preserving
Gems intact
Of the relics
Saved for nothing
Like pictures
Housing wishes
Of smiles
We always
Faked

Among memories
Kept in bins
Beneath stairs
Of darkest basements
Cheap
And unassuming
Of the pain
Contained
Within.

– J. Pigno

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