routine details

the bus driver glared at me

like i was a sin to society;

he called me a fag—under his breath,

and i got in my seat like nothing happened. 

i slammed the door when i got home

and forgot the secrets people whisper

when my back is turned—eyes are down,

like i can't hear the hate heavy on their tongues. 

my friend texted me "happy pride!"

i think i had forgotten that was a thing,

like it wouldn't happen this year—it'd be missed;

i tore down my flags in january. 

this bubble of blue is starting to pop;

we were surrounded by branches and pines,

my house in the middle—nowhere was a place,

i don't know where the nature went. 

i've started walking home

but i keep forgetting to take my shoes off

like those shards will make me bleed—sink into my feet,

because even my scrubbed floor is still bloodied. 

i hear those snippets of news at the table i sit at;

put on my headphones to drown out the noise.

the chatter used to be laughs—now nowhere near joy,

but i don't really think it's all that bad

but yesterday i stepped on the bus,

not because i wanted to stand up to that man, but because i forgot,

we made eye contact—he dug down deep,

such trivial things, but the routine gets to me...