Childish insults hurled round the 1980s playground, by misparented kids who didn’t know better, who learnt from elders who didn’t know better, should’ve known better, could’ve done better.
The pansy; full of light, yes, full of colour, yes. Thrown, and still thrown, by those who can’t formulate the words correctly to describe us and resort to hurling a stone alongside the name.
Oh lavender boy, still hiding in the flower pot, once a secret love token, now out in the open and not so sweet-smelling.
The dandy dandelion, although pleasant in appearance, is particularly shallow and unwieldy, yet may describe a person, so encompassed in appearance that it may seem a narcissistic passion.
Garlands of violet have long passed but still remain a symbolic gesture of secrecy, hidden yet still abundant, as water is to life.
Talking of symbols, the green carnation was a secret beholden unto those who knew its true meaning, yet we have no reason to hide.
For we are not broken, nor damaged, and continue to exist.
Yet none of these completely embody the essence of queerience, for the queerest flower is the purple saxifrage.
Saxifraga Oppositifolia… protected from dry, Arctic wind, resilient, yet present.
Prune us not, for we have no need of cutting,
We are perfection swathed in purple,
we thrive.
We thrive in the coldest of conditions, so bring on your cold shoulder, bring on the frost,
For we will survive, and thrive within the ice bath you enshroud us in.
May 2023