Poetry by Thommy Verstrepen

                ​Alex Holyoake CC



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Ghazal for the boys playing.  

We learn tag playground-early, running from being an it: each kid saying homo preceded by no.
It’s an unruly game, I can only play house with wound and wounder: a Stockholm Syndrome no.

When my nephew stains the question if I actually like dressing as a girl, the spring in my step
is a quick slinky stumbling down the stairs of grace. Pride-cleaning my color with an acetone no.

I play hide and seek with shame in masculinity, though I’m cheating by howling with the catcalls.
My first time-out is a small protest, to be more human than boy-wrong, to honest my own no.

If my heart on the floor is lava, I gladly melt into myself. Into a chance to shape me defiance,
to make me question, to name me Becoming. I don’t play house for I am home now.
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Thommy Verstrepen works in Belgium as a digital creative during the day. Their nights are filled with turning dreams into reality - and the other way around by means of poetry, theater, and tabletop roleplaying games.

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