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.

Broken Home

When I was four, my mom asked me if she should divorce my father.

She looked at me through
tears in her eyes,
relocating
her right shoulder.
The wall she was
pushed into moments before
broke under the pressure of her
fragile bones and
she was barely standing.
I searched for her
happiness in
the ashes that used to be a
loving father and caring husband,
but the wind blew them away and
there was
nothing
left.

When I was four, my mom asked me if it would be okay to divorce my father.

She did not want her
children to be
from
a broken home,
so instead
me and my brothers lived
inside
a broken home,
broken walls,
broken bones.
But at least
the windows remained
intact.
At least the screams remained
behind doors,
behind smiles,
behind pretending.

When I was four, I got really good at pretending.

Whenever I started to speak,
I remembered that the
perfect strokes of this
painting would become
messy
if the words fell from my tongue.
I swallowed them like
poison
and they devoured
my wellbeing
creating scars to be
explained away by
pretending.
I got really good at
pretending.
My mom taught me well.

When I was four, my mom asked me if she should divorce my father.

When I was four, my mom didn’t listen when I said yes.

TeleVision

I stand.
All eyes
fixated
on every
word falling
out my mouth.
My hands
shaking,
I hold
my heart
above my head,
colors dripping
onto my face,
marking my skin
like the sky
after a storm,
but no one ever saw
the storm.
No one will acknowledge
the colors.

In minds pictures form,
not of me,
not including me,
just pictures,
void of color.
Suddenly,
I am not the
person of interest,
but a mere
extra in their
reality tv show on
black and white televisions,
all colors
pushed back
into the grey,
into the blur,
into the background,
forced down and
I cannot make myself smaller anymore.

I step forward.
Their world cannot
handle these
pixels that have
never combined
like this before.
Another step
and new
colors surround them.
Colors never
seen before,
but now
everyone is buying
new tvs.

hallucination (Haiku #18)

pictures in motion
realistic on their own,
but no one else sees.

I Need You

I can hear your heartbeat across the miles that separate
your hospital room from my classroom. It’s straining under
the weight of years of life. I am sitting here
thinking back to every time I’ve cried in your living room,
every time I hid in your bathroom to get a second
alone, every time I ran around the kitchen table
or played basketball in your driveway. I sit here with water
swelling my eyes thinking that it might be over soon. I’m
not ready for this to be over. I’m not ready to
let go of your voice when you complain about the three
papers on the table that must be cleaned because the house
is a wreck. I am not ready to walk through the door and
not get bombarded with questions and accusations
about what I must have been doing while I was away.
I sit here crying. I cry and I just want to run to
your house because it’s the only way I know how to keep
my heart in my chest and my brain standing still. You are my
safe place, my playground, my sunrise. You are my smile after
a week of struggling. But you grasp your chest and gasp for air
and the clouds I created to block the future from my
view are lifted a little more.
I don’t want to see this.
I don’t want to lose you.
I can’t let you go yet.
I can’t loosen my grip.