The B in LGBT. A tragic poem. Happy Pride! 😛

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Jasmine.
The scent fills my lungs as I remember her blouse so close. 
Our piano arms rested side by side on the bus seat 
belts nonexistent to restrain 
her Flat chest that balanced a Sharp arrow 
to shatter my White milk glass. 

Her dazzling smile 
so much cleaner than my poverty line—
though I was taught the moon can't be wealthy 
when it lives among the night. 
My mother claimed to be the sun. 
She bleached my clothes and would wilt the flower 
barely bloomed in my heart. 

When Jasmine's bloom pried its petals 
open against my lips, 
my heartbeat rushed forth like an army,  
bayonets stopping short  
to hesitate as pins-and-needles. 

That nano happiness would never count 
for a second. The agonizing minutes 
that followed have stretched 
into an eternity of erased yesterdays. 

For a moment I was a magic carpet 
then shamed into an area rug, 
collecting animal dander and dust 
to cover itself up, to become ignored, 
in what seemed to be the Natural state, 
only to have polluted 
and stained its soul inside a man 
made structure. 

The sunlit valley screamed 
Quelle horreur! 
then laughed 
at the sin 
of two women thinking 
black and white pistils could mix 
in the shade. 
Like Saint Peter I denied her 
for I feared for my life 
caught ablaze....no, no, 
no good. 
The sun could never see my truth. 

An inflorescence we could have been—
flowers on a stem 
pollinating and strengthening 
each other in the face of fire but 

I left Jasmine wilted behind the bus tires, 
matted flowers flattened. Hers and mine. 
I pray someone came along to revive her 
more than I survive 
half of what I am, 
peer-pressured to partially inflated.