When the group turns upon itself

When your group
turns on you
whatever will you do?
I’d suggest politely
you should ask a bi or two
see we know how it feels
to be told you are not real
to be told your existence
is harmful
to inclusion and progress
to be told your sexuality
is a fad at very best
we know what it feels like
to be victims of violence
when the perpetrator is
at a safe place you invest in
we know what it feels like
to be completely erased
to have the mother of pride
be overthrown and displaced
we can tell you simply
it’s just a way of life
you do all kinds of good work
but still have to fight to survive
just stiffen that upper lip
and turn to those you love
trust not just the label
but whoever holds you up
bisexuals know the power
in forming your own home
whether in the LGB community
or out there all alone.
So when the group betrays you
ask a bi how to rebuild
just one who hasn’t fallen
to loud minority rule.

Becky

In the restroom mirror she stands staring, waiting for her masquara to run-the movies say it will. It doesn’t. What does happen is worse. Her eyes get puffy and red-everything swells. She wants to look pretty. Pretty and sad. She desperately wants to be a tragic vision to match the way her heart feels. She’s in her uniform. She’s not the head, but she’s damn good. Yet, still she’s here. In front of the mirror her lower lip whimpers she hears footsteps and turns the faucet on.
No one walks in, but she splashes water on her face all the same. The masquara still doesn’t run though it looks a mess anyway. She splashes the water once again before turning off the faucet. Grabbing paper towels she catches all the drips and sighs. Lip Gloss sticks to paper so she wipes it all off. She’s thinking she left me she’s crying silently for her.
She scrubs her face violently with torn and withered paper towels grabbing more as needed. She’s thinking of that girl. That short, pretty brunette-all natural. She scrubs harder puffy cheeks a deeper red. She turns the faucet on again. Splashing water on her face she scrubs now with hands. She’s crying into the water as three girls enter the room. They look at her puzzled, but pass by all the same. They are giggling and peaking as she washes her face. Ignoring the audience all she can think is she left me for her.
She turns off the faucet and dries her face again. The masquara never runs it just raccooned instead. She stares at her visage as the other girls head to the sinks. Still looking, still giggling, but now calling her a freak. She’s staring into the mirror her uniform on looking at the remnants of the makeup she had on then slowly, very slowly and turns to the other girls. “ Get fucked, losers.” she sneers through dry naked lips-thinking I’m the fucking cheerleader here.
She grabs her stuff. She’s heading to her next class, but her emotions well up again. Exiting the restrooms she walks down the hall thinking of the girl who broke her heart. It had only been a week, but she’s torn apart. She walks out of the building and exits the school.
Her face is puffy, eyes like raccoons, she’s thinking of dying and pretty funerals. “It’s over” she chokes back tears “my life is over” she begins to cry clutching her binder, cars driving by, she sobs.
Then a hiccup, a whimper, and all of a sudden a laugh “fuck them!” stamping her foot she continues to walk. She’s going home. Fuck it. She’s walking much stronger now raccoon eyes no longer leaking she walks on.
She gets about a block before her hands begin to tremble “that bitch!” she shouts wanting to scream wildly, but keeping it in as best she can. She’s fury. Everything in her eyes screams death as she storms ever closer to her house.
She’s thinking horribly violent thoughts about the ex and her pretty natural brunette-fuck them both. Tears run down puffy red cheeks as she arrives. She runs to her room once she enters the house and screams. She screams and she scream and she screams into her pillow.
Her legs begin to kick as do her arms and she thrashes. She thrashes and thrashes and then thrashes some more before growing tired. She’s still thinking of that girl.
Impulsively she sits up. She’s kicking her legs out over the edge of the bed. She’s anxious, and tired, she’s numb from the pain.
Thinking of every word that rhymes with death she grabs a notebook and begins to write. She writes and writes and then tears out the pages and screams.
Her phone begins to vibrate interrupting the fit as she grabs it from the floor like nothing at all was happening.
She flicks on the screen a smile plastering itself on her face as she reads the text preview teasing a message from that girl. She squeals and squeaks shouting “she misses me!”