desabafar.

Well, let it pass; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.

I tried to hide the pain, behind the quotes I found behind the words I wrote behind the books I read and behind all those music I listened, but it keeps coming back to find solace, in my aching soul.

I have this dream where I am not afraid to hold your hand in Texas. This dream where I don’t have a visceral reaction to seeing gay pride flags. This dream where I can invite you home for Christmas dinner and my mother is so kind to you. And she asks where you went to school and she doesn’t choke on your gender identity and she pulls me aside later to tell me how sweet you are. I have this dream where people on the internet stop changing the pronouns in my poetry. I have this dream where I know exactly what to say when my southern baptist relatives ask if I’m dating someone. I have this dream where I don’t have to keep coming out over and over. Where people don’t think my sexuality is a phase unless I can produce a girlfriend on command. Where people stop asking me who fucks better: men or women. Like those are the only options. Like the answer wouldn’t be a gross generalization. I have this dream where people aren’t always waiting to say, “maybe you haven’t found the right guy.” Where I don’t imagine them jumping out from behind doors and bushes and shower curtains to say, “I hope you get over this in time to have children of your own.” Where my friends don’t say “faggot” in front of me and then apologize. Where I don’t say, “it’s okay.” Where we don’t repeat this until it’s stuck under my skin. I have this dream where I can tell my parents that you and I are thinking about moving in together. I have this dream where all of my queer representation isn’t murdered on tv. I have this dream where my queer friends aren’t murdered on the news. I have this dream where I feel safe. In rural Kansas. At my grandparents’ house. In a gay bar. At Pride. I have this dream where I only write you love poems and none of them have to say, “I’m so glad we’re alive.”