In So Many Words. by Fritz Hodges          Every goddamn day I hear those words. You know the ones. Whispered behind your back, shouted from across the room, absently brought into conversation, or screamed inside your head. The words are like sitting on a tack someone put on your chair, the words like thrown pinecones from behind a bush, until eventually it adds up. Tacks become needles; pinecones become rocks. Needles become knives; rocks become bricks. Holding his hand is heresy. Telling him what every day you tell your mom, your wife, your dog, is a societal crime. Unfit for families. Unfit for wedlock. Unfit for the public eye. Pushed and pushed and made a fool. Made the butt of every fucking joke and the object of every hateful stare. Made a scapegoat and a punching bag. Take the cheap shots because they won’t hit back. People fear what they don’t understand, that’s a universal truth.          “Mommy?” a child asks, pulling at her mother’s skirt, “why are they kissing?”          “They’re blasphemers and societal anarchists, Sweetie, shunned by God and the world around them.” She replies.          “Plebeian scoundrels” the child agrees and turns her nose.          In so many words
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It just feels this way sometimes, though I'm definatly one of the lucky ones. Just a bit of short prose.