In my motherland, gay people are worth a pile of dry leaves. Their heads are cracked open like water melons and their hair thrown everywhere like steamers and confetti. Their voices are drowned by the crows that pluck their eyes out for breakfast while good people do nothing. Kings order death and destruction upon them like pawns on an incomplete chess board. I am of that branch but alien to the tree. I know for certain that my fruit is worth much and can sweeten the sour taste that many have come to know. I am off that tree but not of the ground it bestrides. I am love untarnished.