We're on the subway. Well, you are, but I'm not really there. Maybe you're talking about an exam, maybe I am staring at your eyes, but I'm not really there.
We're walking down Bloor, or, you are, but I'm not really there.
I'm floating in my head somewhere, too hot to touch, too paranoid to come out. You try to hold my hand, but it's like a stone. You try kissing me but I turn away. I'm watching the buisness man watching me. I'm watching people watching him watching me. I'm watching you paying attention to me, not them. I'm watching them watch you watching me.
I'm afraid to turn down a residential street away from crowds. I'm afraid to be seen touching you. I'm afraid for you, I'm afraid for me.
We're in a park. Well, you are, but I'm not really there. I'm watching a boy & a girl hold hands & kiss several feet away, wishing that I could do the same, wishing I didn't have to be afraid of loving you where others can see.
I'm afraid of being followed, of being called out, of being kicked, because I'm a girl, loving a girl in plain sight.
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I hope this reassures you. I live in Alabama, a state immersed in a tradition of racism, in the middle of America's "Bible Belt," and I freely hold hands and hug and kiss my girlfriend in public all the time, and nothing has ever happened. I don't even know if people stare or look at us funny because I don't pay attention to them.
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