The search of the faggot within, leads me to question the faggot outside of me.

What I mean is simple, within and without is not matching up.

The images of the faggot without are quite disciplined,

They are narrow in color, although they are full of rainbows,

It’s usually slim, cisgendered, white, young, man, and if they are older, they seem TO BE so “healthy” and wealthy (synonyms)

Usually faggot without is sucking the cock of SKYVODKA, or matrimony, or still measuring it’s body to the regimen of near anorexia and Express,

This faggot without that is so man-ed, he has no idea that I’m reading him queer,

because he’s not really conscious anymore,

because his lumberjack facial hair and hairy chest were once-upon-a-time a conventional resistance for men who thought we all shaved our bodies and lifted our asses to have someone whistle in them.

The metro and the pre-pubescent still exist within the faggot without, forcefully feeding them anxiety,

When I look at you I only see your position,

that  which is being carved out of a perfectly poised body,

that which renders the other male gazing to submit himself:

An active, athletic, top.

NEVER, are you considered to be something else,

and I don’t necessarily mean a bottom, the goddess I revere, the trap we use to capture faggot withouts and make them conscious of what they have to do to get-off and feel their faggot within,

a divine inversion,

I find myself protecting my vanity, 

“verse” is code for whatever I want, whatever you want,

Just feel me, these lips and my ass are yours to consume, because at the same time I am consuming you, a snake eating it’s tail, that desired union, because in the end I’m the mouth with teeth that retains the memory of your own neglectful self, your denial, and your inner slut,

This simple faggot without is supposed to represent my desire,

This simple faggot without, is supposed to represent my sense of self,

That complex concept which emerges internally and erupts outwardly after engaging several obstacles of history, the present moment, my symbolic acquisition of meaning, and my consciousness with resistance,

Fuck that faggot without, it’s presence makes me feel inadequate:

Example: I told other queers one time I think I should start acting more butch because I was concerned with having the straight man that I am supposed to desire,

At last, we have arrived at the meaning of faggot without, he is your president, your quarterback, your promking, your UFC heavy weight champion, your father, your grandfather, your God, your fratboy, your porno, your models on the cover, your Hollister and Abercrombie, Your OC and Chad Michael Murray, your Armani and Gucci, your Sammy Sosa, your Queer As Folk, your Glee…

In them they feign trauma or experience, no hay marícon, and if there is a jota, I swear its getting it in the ass, or flanking the side of some sugar daddy.

Or dressed radically in a wig, with lipstick and perfume,

Or massaging the custom painted lowrider while his dad beats him at night for putting on pantyhose,

Or being essentially “Latino” with the full arsenal of Spanish, skin and face of authenticity,

Even that reminds me I’m closer to expressing faggot without,

My faggot within is lost to be represented by documentaries of homelessness, or queens of the street, or the jungle and desperate lovers of AIDS, or have it themselves, dying for whiteness, or undocumented, or accents applied,

Faggot within is spoken to like a diminutive,

Faggot without refuses to embrace my understanding of living not within a border but constantly crossing back and forth, maybe that created the border,

The island was forced into Michigan, America, forced under its boot letting go of everything but arroz con gandules, tostones, yucca and memories, the daughters of which were never imagined except when it involved pageants, horses, and money, closer to becoming the boot, pero las hijas were reminded by their classmates and lovers of their ethno-feminine-race-sex, their color so dark and majestic, becoming their own Boricua Queens (without the knowledge and language to say so) with their own journeys to discover their essence of second generation, my mother loving me a sense of pride, and endowing me with a sense of half-bred identity, my father imposing control and aggression with hood from Detroit, a Polish, German, Native American, mut-like swag that fucked up his enemies and fucked his girlfriends even harder, (he never had to embrace those borders).

All of that, framing my quest for existing as both, forcing me to claim one more than the other, and feeling passion for my own gender, kinship with the feminine-race-sex, “cutting-up” and actin’ a damn fool, hearing and feeling the presence of my spirits at night and in solace, then silenced by confession and crosses, with blades of death and footballs approaching my wrists, God became womyn and nurtured me closer to her cunt and I felt her minions’ guiding presence upon my right and left shoulder, two become one, just like me the multiple I feel within, assimilation escaped me race, ethnicity, sexuality, and gender and BORN MY FAGGOT WITHIN!

Faggot within was severed from his angels, those genderfucking spirits that were separated by my Church’s representations:

Michael and Gabriel (man with spear and womyn with trumpet, their roles quite preserved) But I knew the truth, I talked with them, they were faggots through and through!

Faggot within never knew that Inle was sent by Yemaya to the bottom of the Ocean for seeing the mystical figure shamelessly engage shameful behavior, While falling in love with his lover, at the bottom of the ocean he waved goodbye, at the bottom of the ocean he resurrected himself anew in a world of feminineman, third within,

Faggot within, Michael, Gabriel, Inle.

it is not your bitch or your boss,

it is the rebel that pushes back and takes you in,

It threatens to tear through the seal, and release itself on your stomach and your back,

Faggot within claims itself and shares the pelvis of another,

Faggot within makes love to me at night,

Faggot within, I’m loving you deeply,

 I drag you out when I sashay and vogue,

You force me down when you want to paint your face,

I raise you up when you desire more knowledge,

I support you when I let your expressions fly unabashed and unchecked,

I realize I balance you with their desire through my facial hair and earrings, and the pants that the faggot without sold me,

At last, the Kilimanjaro for my faggot within is my body,

The undoing of which I do not request the slightest because I believe that is where faggot within meets faggot without.

And the conflict it creates frustrates everybody else more than my faggot within, She remains steadfast, resolute, with a razor under her tongue, because she knows him, that faggot without, him a devolved version of her,

Everyone else however, has to ask, ponder rather, what is the meaning of all of this,

They have no clue, unless they themselves know their own faggot within,

Maybe even some of them met their faggot within and murdered her, afraid to let the truth of experience run supreme to science,

BUT MY FAGGOT WITHIN

MY SISSY

MY POWERBOTTOM

MY MARICON

MY JOTA

MY BITCH

MY SLUT

MY SUCIA

MY SINVERGüENZA

MY HALFBREED

MY QUEER!

YOU ARE MY QUEEN,

YOU ARE MY DIVINE,

YOU ARE MINE,

I AM YOURS,

I KNOW YOU,

I KNOW YOU,

I KNOW YOU,

I DESIRE YOU,

AND I WILL ALWAYS TELLYOU:

I  LOVE YOU!

-By Eric Michael Highers