I was banishing the pride flag that hung proudly from within my closet during the month of June when there was a rapping on the door. This loud thudding repeatedly asked; Why?

Why do you need a whole month?

Why must you have a parade?

Why don’t we get a parade?

As I stared at the empty spot left by my lowered flag, I entertained their question. Why do we need pride? If not because of the institutional marginalization or the history of blatant discrimination that has managed to trickle into the current day, then why?

The first response that came to mind wasn’t the obvious one. Rather, it was the reason I felt the need to hang my flag from within my closet, even if only I could see it.

It’s because of the little things. Those small comments and gestures.

They’re not outright homophobic, but still carry the sentiment.

They’re subtle enough for others to miss, but you always manage to catch them.

They’re small enough to get under your skin, but big enough to hurt like hell.

It’s when people imply queerness is some dirty, explicit, “adults only” topic. To them, queer is synonymous for sex but never crushes, expression, or love. They complain about kids being “too young” to know about queerness, let alone understand that they themselves are queer. Yet, they never question it when a kid reaffirms they’re straight or cisgender.

It’s when peeople debate about our rights. They publish fun little articles like Should gay people be in the military? Or be allowed to marry? Or able to adopt? They act as if whether we get the same rights as them, or even have the right to exist, is just a fun debate topic and not a battle that we’ve been fighting for ages.

It’s when people question if we exist at all. They ask if we choose to be this way or are merely pretending. They pick and choose to aknowledge the identities that they understand. All of it is an attempt to imply that what happens to us as a result of how we identify ourselves is our own fault.

It’s all these little shoves that accumulate into a push. It forces us deeper into the closet until we’re backed into a corner with no clear path to come out.

Standing on the outside knocking on a closet door they don’t even know exists, they’ll never even know the half of it.

They’ll never know the burden placed on queer people who have to continuously come out to everyone we meet because it’s assumed we are straight or cisgender.

They’ll never know the sinking feeling we get when someone talks about queer people. We wait to see if someone we trust is going to say something homophobic. We mentally prepare to erect a barrier if they do. From then on, we harbor a seed of distrust that grows with every ignorant comment they continue to make.

They’ll never know the mad dash to hide our rainbow flags and tear down our pictures from last year’s pride before family weekend at college. It’s a race against time to hide a part of ourselves from those we can’t be sure would love us otherwise.

They’ll never know the little struggles we deal with on the daily that accumulate over time and pile up like a heavy snow. They’ll never comprehend the comments that are thought to be shared among fellow straights; the names, like “he-she”, or “sus boy”; the laughs these names get; the grimaces and groans when someone passes by with a rainbow flag; the disgust in a child’s voice when they use the word “gay”; the way the term is thrown around like an insult; the constant denial that these issues exist; the denial that we even exist in the first place.

Most of all, they’ll never know the liberating feeling of being surrounded by others who understand you and what you’re going through. They’ll never comprehend the affirmations and advice from those who share your struggles; the positive vibes that radiates from people who are proud to be themselves; the same pride it engenders in you; the feeling of lowering the walls you’ve built to protect yourself; the exhilarating freedom that comes with inconsequently being 100% yourself.

They can’t truly comprehend how all this negativity mixed with affirmations and support accumulate to form our unique experience. Instead of putting the effort into gaining an understanding, or at least respecting the fact that they lack one, they knock. They knock, and knock, and knock on our closet doors with their comments and jabs and questions and actions.

Despite the constant knocking, being queer isn’t some sort of wretched curse. Being queer means being part of a vibrant community with a rich and colorful history we’ve come to celebrate. When the knocking on the door gets too loud, the louder voices that express their pride in our community help drown them out. These cheers, chants, and shouts cover us like a blanket keeping us warm from the accumulating snow. They seem to express exactly what we need to hear; you’re not alone, you’re perfect just the way you are, you’re allowed to be proud of that.

These affirmations and feeling of security they create in those of us locked in closets that you can’t see is precisely the reason why we need pride, and why we should all proudly hang our flags back up.

Even after June.

Even if only we can see them.

How could my heart be made of interlocking cogs and gears if it aches every time I realize that you cannot bear being my equal?

How could electric pulses march along my coppery veins if my blood boils whenever you make me feel small so you can feel big?

How could you observe my metallic sheen if I have dimmed my light so it doesn’t blind you?

How could you say I’m an empty, metal husk if the fire inside me roars to life whenever you are not there to smother it?

How could my hue be a dull bronze or murky gray if I am an ocean of colors enjoying the ebb and flow of life?

How could I dream in zeros and ones if my imagination is a vivid landscape interwoven with beauty and wonder?

How could you suggest my soul is weighed down by metal limbs if my aspirations allow me to soar across the globe?

How dare you suggest I’m robotic if I am full of life beyond the metallic walls I have erected around myself to protect me from you?

What will you do if I let them colapse?

Will you be able to bare it if I shed my metal skin?

Will you be able stand side by side with the person I am on the inside?

Or will you crumble under the weight of your own insecurities when I am no longer there to shoulder them?

It’s like running a marathon.

You’ve been running forever.

You’re practically gasping for air.

You promise yourself that you’ll stop at the next intersection and catch your breath.

You fantasize about that intersection.

You imagine how great it will be to finally take a goddamn break.

But that intersection never comes.

And you’re running, and running, and running.

And you’re gasping, and gasping, and gasping.

Your lungs can’t seem to get enough air.

You’re practically chocking on the little air you can manage to get because you’re still running, and running, and running.

That is the crippling feeling that encompasses me when I wake up in the morning with the view of another day on the horizon.

Even eight hours of sleep doesn’t seem to quell the feeling of being a windup toy that never finishes unwinding. I march endlessly with no end in sight, legs still marching long after I’ve fallen.

With each day comes an endless to-do list that seems more and more like a hundred headed hydra. As I check off one task, another two seem to replace it.

This endless responsibility manifests into stress, weighing me down like boulders that have sunken to the bottom of a lake. I trudge through my day, feeling their burden resist my already tired movements.

And how tired they’ve become.

I feel like a battery that’s been operating on it’s last percent.

I feel like an opera singer that has been holding a high note since the beginning of the show.

I feel like a car that’s been driving cross country on its last mile of gas.

Yet, I keep running, and running, and running.

But all I want is to reach that intersection and finally stop.

The unseen scars are the hardest to bear.

The ones that are seared into our minds by burning memories, or etched into our hearts by razor-sharp despair.

With no air, or light, or simple remedy to heal these wounds, they feel like boulders resting in the depths of our stomachs. They force us to trudge forwards, lagging behind the rest since the weight of our burdens drags us down.

We reach out for a helping hand; one that will allow us to regain our footing; one that will propel us forward.

But there are none to reach for.

Even when we plead for a hand, they’re quickly retracted when others search for signs of our scars.

“You don’t look hurt.”

“It doesn’t seem as if you need a hand.”

“He just wants attention.”

“She’s being overdramatic.”

“Don’t listen to them, they’re not really in pain.”

But little do they know about what brews underneath the surface.

If only they knew how our blood boiled from the heat of our trauma. If only they could see how it aches right to the core of our bones.

Maybe then they’d extend a hand.

Maybe then they’d try to comprehend our pain.

As far as they’re concerned, if they can’t see it, it’s not really there.

But I challenge them. I challenge everyone. Look into the depths of another’s soul, not with your eyes, but with your heart and your mind.

Feel their burdens intertwine with yours.

Feel as they mesh and mash together.

Listen to the cries of your fellow man.

Listen as they sing a song of sorrow and strife with their sobs.

Cry with them as they shed their tears.

Don’t be afraid to shed some too.

Extend a hand, and never let go.

For the only way to mend the wounds and heal the scars we can’t see is with a force we can’t quite eye; love.

Let your compassion, your empathy, your love, mend the wounds and heal the scars of your fellow man.

Let it fill you up inside so you can share it with another. Then maybe, just maybe, we can all begin to heal.

Now, this compassion, this empathy, this love, it may not be enough to completely vanquish the scars we cannot see.

However, they sure make them a hell of a lot easier to bear.

Society tells us that our scars are a burden.

People claim we are ugly and hideous because of them. Scars are merely errors that corrupt and contaminate our composition. With each mark, our image is further defiled.

But there are more to scars than just being pests. I like to think that our scars embellish our image rather than tarnish it.

We all carry a lot of scars; each one painted across our bodies like a portrait. Every scar tells a unique story. They tell the story of a little girl who fell off her bike. They tell the story of a parent that fell out of a tree after their heroic efforts to rescue a child’s lost kite. They tell the story of a brawl between two boys that fought under the flag pole in grade school.

I carry a lot of scars. My scars detail my fallacies and failures; my trials and triumphs. They tell the story of a little girl that often tripped over her own feet. They tell the story of the times when I was able to get back up after a nasty fall. They harmoniously tell the thrilling tale of a warrior that can dust herself off and stand back up.

I sat alone in the cold cellar under my house. A little piece of wood shoved in between the cellar door's handle was the only thing that protected me from the hell unfolding outside.

I wasn't prepared, no one was. It just happened all of a sudden. A blaring siren sounded across the nation followed by an emergency broadcast. A panicked broadcaster informed her viewers that zombies were erupting out of the ground and to seek shelter.

I was home alone when it happened. My parents were at work and my little sister was still on her way home from school. Unsure of what to do in such a situation, I locked myself in the cellar. I sat there, cold and alone, wishing for some sign that my family was alright.

My heart jumped when I heard someone banging on the cellar door. I huddled further into the corner, trying my best to keep quite. "Anna! Annabel! Are you in there?" the voice outside the door screamed. I let out a sigh of relief when I realized the voice belonged to my little sister, Phoebe.

I rushed to the door to let Phoebe in. I removed the wood block from the door's handles and pulled open the door. "Phoebe," I cried happily, "you're okay."

"I thought you, mama and papa were all gone," Phoebe sniffled.

"Hurry inside," I urged Phoebe. She entered the cellar while I resealed the door.

"Are mama and papa down here?" Phoebe asked as she took a seat in the corner.

Once the door was secure, I sat besides her. "No, they're at work still," I responded solemnly.

"Will they be okay?" she cried.

"I don't know."

"Will we be okay?"

"I don't know."

"What are we going to do?"

"All we can do is wait. The phone lines are still working and so is the power. The military can handle this. I'm sure they'll issue another broadcast saying the government has everything under control. Until then, we'll just wait."

Phoebe gave me a small nod.

We spent the remainder of the day reading books Phoebe bought home in her bag under the light of my cellphone. Sometime around ten, Phoebe crawled onto my lap and buried her head into my chest before falling asleep. As she slept, I stared at the cellar door. I prayed that at any moment my parents would walk through them and tell me that everything was alright.

They never did.

I ran up the cellar stairs, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from my newest wound. I tip-toed into the desolate kitchen and peered out the screen door. As far as the eye could see, rotting corpses staggered aimlessly around the backfields. I backed away from the door, bumping into a counter. I leaned against the counter for support. My left calf, the sight of my newest wound, started to feel numb. Not this. Not now. Not Yet! I thought apprehensively.

I tried to catch my breath but it only accelerated when I heard a sound coming from the cellar. “Fuck," I murmured under my breath. I stood up, ignoring the numbness that radiated upwards from my wound.

I heard the sound again, this time it was closer. I took a seat at me old kitchen table. I needed a strategy. I could either take my chances with the army of the undead that lurked outside or battle the beast that invaded my home. Seeing as one on one was more strategic than one on a hundred, I decided to stay.

I grabbed a rusty knife from off the kitchen table, instantly dropping it. I could no longer feel my right hand. I tried grabbing the knife with my other hand but it quivered before releasing the knife.

Thatʼs when I began to panic.

I shakily stood up, falling back down again. "Not this. Not now. Not yet!” I pleaded to no one in particular. I tried to get to my feet, to no avail. I was so distract, disoriented rather, that I nearly missed the sound of my cellar door bursting open.

I instantly froze. I slowly veered my eyes in the direction of the kitchenʼs doorway. I waited for the beast to find its way to me. I waited for thirty long seconds before the zombie that had caused my wound barreled into the kitchen. I sat still, watching the reanimated corpse destroy my kitchen. My body had long since gone completely numb. I closed my eyes, anticipating the zombieʼs attack.

I had previously excepted my fate. From the moment the zombie bit me, I already knew I was as good as dead.

Why do I try?

Why do I try when the whole world brings me down?

They beat me.

Mock me.

Stifle me.

Disparage me.

Until I feel like I am nothing.

Why do I try?

Why do I try when they say that I can't?

They say I canʼt compete.

I canʼt succeed.

I canʼt achieve.

I canʼt triumph.

Until I believe I am nothing.

Why do I try?

Why do I try when they just get in my way?

They limit me.

Prohibit me.

Restrict me.

Subjugate me.

Until I really am nothing.

Why do I try?

I try because I wonʼt let them control me.

They may bring me down.

They may put me down.

They may hold me down.

But I will not submit to the will of someone who believes I am anything less than someone.

Because I am not nothing

I am something

And I am not going to let anyone

treat me as if I weren't