Throughout my life,

there have been times
where I've been overflown with support.
Other times,
I've had none at all.
And there are people that I know I can go to,
if I need it.
But it's impossible for someone to be with me at every waking moment.
Some people might come close, but never totally.

That day,
that afternoon,
that morning,
that night,
where the one I need is unavailable,
sleeping,
busy,
working,
it could be the worst time.

That one hour,
that minute,
that second,
could be the moment
where the negativity
finds the hidden weakness
in my armor.

This negativity
could be my own feelings.
The disphoria,
the depression,
jealousy,
of the men who didn't have to fight to be men.
Of the people
who's significant other lives
in the same state as them.

This negativity
could be other people.
People who feel
like they have the right
to judge me.
Who feel like they have the need to put someone else down,
for the sake of their reputation.

But,
when I'm feeling pinned to a corner,
surrounded by people
with nothing but negativity
in their expressions,
I just look to the floor.
I feel that there is
absolutely nothing wrong
with staring at the floor
when I'm feeling nervous,
scared,
mad,
or any kind of emotion.

I think it's perfectly fine,
and that people who look to the ground when teased,
bullied,
or in any situation
AREN'T cowards.
I understand completely.

The floor is a powerful supporter.

It seems to be the only thing
that won't look at me
with judgement
or disgust in its eyes.
It doesn't even have eyes.

It's just a floor after all.

It's safe to look to,
because the floor doesn't know the difference

between a white man and a black man;
the floor doesn't know
the difference between
a female and a male,
the floor doesn't know
the difference between
me and a straight man.
It's not going to tell my secrets.

It doesn't have a mouth.

It's.
A.
Floor.

It's not going to hold a grudge, because as long as I clean it up,
it doesn't care what I spill.
The floor doesn't know my darkest secrets,
regrets,
or mistakes.
It doesn't know my past,
my sexual orientation,
or my gender identity.

The floor doesn't know anything, actually,
'cause again;

it's a freaking floor;

but it still supports me.

I can stare at it
for as long as I want,
until I gain enough confidence to look up,
chin high,
and say,

"Yea.
This is me.
What are you
going to do about it?"