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“My favourite thing about being out and holding my fiancés hand: the look in the waiters eyes. As his eyes flicker back to us just enough times to be noticed but never enough times to be commented on. How his mind works itself into a delighted tizzy as he thinks that no. Maybe we aren’t his usual clientele, but maybe when he is out he doesn’t have to be the usual clientele either. When a little girl passes us on the street, too young to care about anything more than the fact that my dress is pretty and holding hands is romantic. She hasn’t been taught hate yet, to hate others, or herself, so we get to teach her love. In that second of a glance we teach her that love is paramount, and if we can look at each other like we are made of stars, maybe someone will look at her that way. And maybe she will look at them back and realize that in a world of shame and pursed lips passing on the street, a child’s glance is gold. For us holding hands is a revolutionary act, and we shape the next generation with every step we take outside our doors. No slurs yelled by drunk men or lectures spouted by women who are scared her children may become us, will ever stop that.”

“My feelings for her overrode all of my fear about being out as a lesbian. I had to be with her, and I just figured I’d deal with the other stuff later.”

“Some recover, some pretend to recover, some never come back, some chicken out before even starting, and some, for fear of taking any turns, find themselves leading the wrong life all life long.”

“Coming out isn’t something you do once. Its often in stages that grow in risk: to your friends, your community, your family. An ever expanding, never ending act of bravery.”

“We hold onto any form of representation we can get because it’s always been repression, watching the same films over and over again, rewinding the parts when they finally lean close. I’m not in love, it’s just a friend staying over again. Never sitting alongside, Never meeting each others parents, Never holding hands. We turn down the news and act like we don’t care about our own dying. We are maggots, excuse me, was it faggots? Are we just a bundle of sticks? People light us on fire like we are. Act like my skin is not burning when she touches me. If gay is an insult, weak, a sickness like they say, then I am gay”

“Im not like them but i can pretend”