Proof of a Queer Life

Proving you are gay enough to deserve asylum more art than science,
but also more baking than cooking. More important that the ingredients

are in proper proportion than that they are fresh. It’s all going in the oven anyway.
Pictures are key. Eight to ten at minimum, but give more if you got ‘em.

At least a few taken outside. Proof of the queer life to be shown to the world.
Proof America isn’t like those other girls. Say what you will about

 the corporate pink wash of the Pride parades, but that rainbow spackled
Doritos truck makes a hell of a photo op. Make sure you’ve joined all the support groups.

Make sure your therapist is in touch with your lawyer. You need as many people as possible,
with as many letters after their name as possible, to swear under penalty of perjury,

 that they are sure they are sure, that you are gay enough to die for it. There is nobody
more truscumy then the Department of Homeland Security, so if you are trans,

 but aren’t in the process of chopping something off, they just call it playing dress-up.
Pictures with a partner are perfect. Out to brunch. Holding hands. Kissing is ok,

 but no tongue. Same with pics from dating apps. No face, no case, also applies
in this space. The government can’t explicitly ask who and how you fuck,

but they will always ask about your “relationship.” They’ll want to hear a story
Disney movie free from sex but drizzled thick with a love they can recognize.

Like the sweater over the shoulders and tied at the heart of a non-threatening
gay neighbor in a prime time sitcom. Screengrabs of an all caps FAGGOT

left as an Instagram comment is mana. For pictures of scars, filters are your friend.
Toggle a few dials to make that keloid really pop. The story, of course, seals the deal.

It must have the range. The roller coaster makes its magic from dynamic oscillation,
so make sure that there are few shards of joy sprinkled amongst the piss on the grade school

bathroom floor. Sneak some chocolates and a love letter to a cute bank teller
to make the smell of gasoline in the back of the patrol car

crawl into the nose even deeper. It all must be as high contrast
as black Times New Roman against white multi-use copy paper. In a short, concise manner,
be able to explain exactly when you knew you were what you are. As if any bird
can tell you precisely when and how their egg started to crack. In a short, concise manner,

be sure you can properly opine on the motivations of your rapist. You need to say
with absolute certainty that they raped you because you are queer. Otherwise, it doesn’t count

toward your evidentiary scorecard. Never mind how those thoughts already live under
your skin as an inky cancer. How saying them aloud rubs as raw as the burlap sack

against your face.  Flatten your agony to an 8.5 x 11 sheet as relatable as an Ellen
opening monologue. Remember, it doesn't matter if your story is true if no one buys it.

Remember, we are here to wet up two cups of blood.

By Geoff Kagan-Trenchard - Twitter: @GeoffTrenchard