We are writing
on different sides of the same page.
when the other does fold,
our words are still eyed upside down,
left to write wrongs others won’t read.
Yet, I feel my side thrives
on our empathy, so I cry,
“Distaste implies you have taken a bite,
so why don’t we both blush as you shame these
choices?” Even the simple ones
are misread. I joke about the hot air
wearing a jacket, while you are vested
to bare arms. I miss the mark.
I’m only clever if you’re on my side.
I think, at least
I do love the wrong ones,
and whether you hate correctly or not
after life divides
our different decisions
into awareness or stigma.
You’re roar is lying, but
you still persist,
trumpeting division for pairs in love
that do not multiply.
I bray to add worth
by sharing all rights
instead of subtracting equality.
But after our votes and anger are cast,
and those two damn simple signs shove us towards new nowheres,
Too tired, partied eyes–one blue, both red–
will close, make friends, again for years.
I’ll still be left, and you’ll still think you’re right.