Tylyn K. Johnson (he/they) is a part-time writer from Indianapolis, IN. He writes to reflect the traditions of storytelling and empowerment he comes from through the framed lenses of Black and Queer artistry. Their language has appeared in the lickety~split, Brainchild Magazine, Queen Spirit Magazine, and Rigorous, among other spaces. A recipient of the 2021 Myong Cha Son Haiku Award, they have performed various readings and obtained multiple writing awards at the University of Indianapolis. Tylyn is also the creator of "Communal Creativity: A Game of Poetry" on itch.io. His projects and social media can be found at linktr.ee/tykywrites. (@TyKyWrites on Instagram and Twitter)

burlesque justice

tylyn johnson

Zest pervades the onlookers of the queen, lounging on his throne of gold.
Yes, he slays. Draped in black silk, leaving one leg exposed,
except something hides between those regal legs, untucked only for his man.
With blood-bottomed heels, he stands up to applause, patting his ebony locs. The
vogue of his performance finally arrived, after years of fear
under the weight of a world that casted him as a creature of the unholy.
The practices this queen had done in the closet had prepared him to
share with the world this love that he knew might never be realized.
Raring to become what he knew he was, the moonlight in the dark. A
queen of the night. Of the downpour that would finally, finally,
pave the way for his people to stand under that rainbow one day.
Owning that stage, he rolled his body under that dress,
narrating a song with his body as his lips mirrored the lyrics with nary a sound.
Meeting the crowd halfway, this queen finally felt something glow in that chest of his.
Liberated, queerness without all the fear. Happy, a soul that had grown light. Blowing
kisses to his starstruck people, he curtsies for them, their screams, their dollar bills.
Just as the end of his show nears, he speaks to his temporary subjects
“I won’t tell you to not hate, honies,” he says, “Cause I know that I
hate plenty of things too; bigotry, ignorance, disrespect, stupidity.
Girls, the list goes on. But do me a favor, and spread a little love.” This queen, long known as
fruity, a fag, a flower, a fairy, a pansy, struts past those that once dismissed him.
Easily working heels that would steal the life of another away, he
damns his opposition. The hell they tried to drag him to would have to wait,
‘cause he still had to rule his people, to decree that love would continue to be spread.
Because that is what this very moment was for. And in the end,
another rebellion was brought to its end, the queen and his people safe still.