In my twenties, I was a practising Christian.
Every week, before communion, I made my confession.
The numbness that followed the bread and wine
was a time of rest in a world that ground me down.
I was also a practising homosexual.
Every day I traded my secret shame in public toilets
where anonymous others did the same,
to maintain my guilt, for my unforgiving family to exploit.
They had to keep their grip on me somehow.
Since I seemed to be a born hypocrite,
I had to disallow myself understanding.
In my thirties I reduced my dependence on family
and church, and most of all tried to cut out the secrecy
I had been made to keep about my homosexuality.
The latter was very persistent. I tried to replace them all
with a self renewing non-breeder relationship
which over the decades has shown me that deep down
I was, and I always had been, more asexual and agnostic
than I had accepted. In a world built on drive and thrust
my lack of lust gives me a better class of hypocrisy.
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