To Be A Poet, Part 2

She said it in passing.
Casually.
Haphazardly.

I roll the small black screw
back and forth
between my index and thumb
and wonder,
Then I’d be worthy of what?

My world falls apart.
Day after day I tell myself
that it was said in frustration —
not at me, but at him.
Him.

She said it in passing:
“Why couldn’t you be men?”

And my heart —
my heart —
learned to love
a little less that day.

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