My Coming Out Story (video)

In honor of Pride Month, here’s a video from my first feature describing the first time I came out to my mom. It’s accurately named “My Coming Out Story.”

My Coming Out Story

I took a deep breath and swallowed
hard trying to rid myself of the
fear that found a home
blocking my throat.
Words forgotten the moment they left my lips and you stared right
through me. I watched your mind
tracing every action and reaction you’ve ever seen that wasn’t the
typical
straight girl aesthetic.

“You really need to think about this”
That’s what you managed to say.
Think
My hands shake with every sound you make
Think
I do nothing but think
Think
I wouldn’t crumble your world with this news if I didn’t think
Think
I can’t think anymore

“This is a burden I don’t want you to carry”
Burden
I am a burden
Burden
You are burdened
Burden
But my life isn’t a crime committed in the dead of night with loaded guns and ski masks
Think
My life is not a sex scene in that movie you thought was kid-friendly
Burden
I shouldn’t have to bury my face in the sleeves of my hoodie
Think
I shouldn’t have to make up a comfy chair and carefully choose my words
Burden
I shouldn’t have to avoid eye contact with the girl across the room because I do not have a
dick between my legs
Think

“Are you sure?”
Do you think I’m fucking sure?
Do I need to provide a folder of evidence for you?
Should I film the intimate nights in a dimly lit room?
Do you want to be in that room when we brush against each other’s bare skin?
Would that prove it to you?
Think. Burden. Think. Burden

“Maybe it’s just her…”
Actually it is her.
That’s the fucking point.
Maybe I love her.
Maybe I love girls.
Maybe –

“Why don’t you try…”
No.
No I will not try to fit into your mold.
No I will not pretend for the comfort of those who can’t see past who I
fuck to see that I am a real person.

I am a person.

Please understand that.

Please, mom,

Understand.

This Is A Queer Poem

Four years old.

I looked down at my 3 month old brother through emerald colored glasses as I held my breath and pulled up this flow-y green dress, given up pleading my mom to wear pants or ANYTHING aside from this fabric that I soon realized would always make me uncomfortable.

Nine years old.

“You’re just a lesbian. That’s why you’re so weird.” They laughed and I started to ask for an explanation but decided it was a question better answered by someone who didn’t hate me for existing. A question that would later be answered with four extra words that remained burned into the back of my mind and shaped every thought I would have about myself. “But that’s not you.”

Fourteen years old.

I lay my eyes on this girl with pink hair in the back of my trigonometry class and a billion butterflies break out of their cocoons for the first time in my life. Wrote it off as social anxiety.

Eighteen years old.

A bottle of gas station knock-off vodka later and I kissed a girl. Awkward and awful and on the floor of a trashed hotel room surrounded by people who weren’t nearly as drunk as I was. Next morning and questions I’ve been avoiding screamed making the hangover seem nonexistent, drowned in the nausea of putting the pieces together.

Eighteen and a half.

Hey mom, I’m not straight. Everyone else knows it, thought it was time you heard too. And now she avoids any conversation about relationships.

Nineteen years old.

A creative writing exercise left me shaking in the bathroom for twenty minutes. How was I supposed to write from the perspective of the “opposite gender” when I didn’t even know my own? My cisgender professor didn’t quite understand that.

Twenty-one years old.

This is me. Whatever this is. Given up trying to find a single word or phrase to define this, but I am here. I do exist. I will continue to exist.