Whispers     *WHISPERS*                             *By GILDA LILY*        The whispers follow us                             Everywhere we go:                             The Precinct,                             The Consulate,                      Even into                             Our home.                        We smile, and grasp                             One another's hand,                             Shutting them out                             As we shut the door.                               But the pain                             Is still here.                               Out in the world,                             We hear the questions:                              "Why must they flaunt it?"                            "Why don't they just                             Keep quiet about                             Their perversion?"                               The statements:        "I don't care what                              They do, as long                              As they don't do it                              In front of me."                                "Some of my                               Best friends                               Are gay, but                               I can't approve                               Of what they do."                                "What a waste."                                "Isn't that sick?                               They want to get                               *Married!*                               What is this world                               Coming to?"                                   "Homosexuality                                Is wrong..."                                Disgusting..."                                Perverted..."           Do they know                                What they do to us?                                Do they know                                How they hurt us?                                Do they care?                                  Ray says no,                                But I must                                Continue to believe                                That if our tormenters                                Knew what they were doing                                They would stop,                                And leave us in peace.                                  Because, as sure as                                My blood is Canadian,                                I will never stop                                Loving my man.           Touching him,                                Kissing him,                                Parting my legs,                                To welcome him                                Into me.                         Crave to bury                                Myself hilt-deep                                Into him.                                Share our tears                                Of joy,                                Share a sweet kiss.                                  Please,                                Just let us be                                Happy.                                  Is that so much                                To ask?          jeanniemarie@sprintmail.com Return to Due South Fiction Archive