Yesterday my mother asked me what I
would name my children and I told her that
I did not want any. She scoffed at me
and shook her head, insisting
that once I found the
all of that would change.
And I thought back
to all the times when my palms
sweated and my throat ran dry
and my cheeks heated up just because
a girl walked by whose lips
were so pretty and pink that all I wanted
to do was taste them.
I replied, swallowing the acid
that was threatening to crawl out of
"it will take a lot more than that
to convince me."
Because despite the fact that
the mere thought of a man
with arms that could carry the weight of the
world holding me tight could
make my legs crumble beneath me,
I just don't know if it
would be the right choice.
I remember once
when I let it slip that I supported
those who loved all genders
my parents stared at me as if I
had admitted to murder. "It's wrong,"
my father had exclaimed and to me,
his words were a toxin more deadly
than arsenic. "It's disgusting."
In that moment I realized
that my parents would never be happy
with a daughter who could fall in love
with anyone the moment she
heard their laughter or saw the universe
that resided in their eyes. So I
just smiled and pretended that there
was no urge to rip off my skin
and burn it until all that was left
were bare bones and monochrome heart
too scared of what it desires.