"Pass the potatoes."

I pass the potatoes to Aunt Shelly, the one who never really liked me.

When I was twelve years old, I did something really bad, and she told me I did it for attention, though really I did it because there was nothing left to do. After that, I didn't stay over at my cousins' anymore.

And now that I'm seventeen and things are different (though not by much), I'm still able to look her in the eye and pass her the potatoes.

I watch her ladle them onto her plate. They smell heavenly, richly bathed in thick gravy, peppered with sprigs of fresh rosemary. Aunt Rebbeca's husband is a marvelous cook.

My mouth waters. But I'm not hungry.

Every year we sit around and we eat, and I'm the only one who feels bad and dirty. Everyone else is used to me, and that's what makes me feel the worst. The fact that they have come to expect this of me and it's normal to them.

I remember kissing Abby. Her mouth was soft and she held my face in her hands and her hair tickled when she leaned in. And even though it wasn't me she wanted to kiss, I was okay with being second because it was better than being my usual self, which was nothing.

And when I hung up my colors in my room my dad told me it was against his ethics and that I had to take it down. So I folded the flag up and put it in my closet. There was something ironic about it, and deeply infuriating.

To shove that part of me way back in, so that we could all eat dinner in silence and be thankful that I kept quiet about my thoughts and my heart and my anger and my feelings and the disrespect that scorched my skin.

And it wasn't a secret that I had no secrets anymore. And sometimes I still wish I kept quiet about it.

My boy speaks quiet baritone poems

Dirty little limericks on sheets of air and

I pretend not to love him as much as I do

Because boys shouldn't be as soft as this

My boy only hums straight love songs so

When I hold his cold hand in the streets

No one knows he's changing the pronouns

My boy cries like a sun shower, smiling

And in the dark, I can love him as I please

My boy loves me in gentle, angry revolution

on the staircase of a dormitory

in August, almost six years ago exactly,

who laughed when I joked

and kissed me at my door

and walked with me in the snow

who made me mac and cheese

and was patient when I was not

who used all my pronouns no matter what they were

and introduced me to her parents:

they say you only ever get one great love in life

and I hope that's not true

but if it is,

I'm glad mine was you.

when I was 12 years old I realized

that maybe I didn't just like boys

that hey my best friend is really pretty

and my heart beats faster when she

holds my hand

when I was 13 I kissed that girl

(it was my first kiss)

and I finally decided to say out loud

that I am bisexual

I finally realized that liking girls

is okay

despite what others might feel or say

when I was 14

I started to love who I am

I realized that hey, maybe I'm asexual too

I met other people who loved the way I do

and I surrounded myself by a community

who loved me despite who I loved

who loved me for who I loved.

I went to pride for the first time

but

when I was 14

I woke with a heavy heart in me chest

with the sounds of gunshots and lives lost

ringing in my ears for hours, days, weeks

as I was informed

that 49 of my brothers and sisters

had been killed.

for what I do everyday of my life

for loving and celebrating who they are

for not being afraid

when I was 14

fear that I worked so hard to banish

started to creep in as

I had begun to fear my own safety

for loving the way I do

at 14

I came to the realization that hatred

has become too powerful.

but how do we fight back with love

if that's exactly what we are getting killed for doing?

The rain.

It falls down so fast, 

Yet so slow.

The rain that 

Falls outside,

Is parallel to the rain

That makes up

Human emotion.

Her face fell

As he screamed 

Her insecurities

Loud enough that

Those who once trusted her

Could hear clearly.

It all happens so fast.

The rain.

The breaking of the human heart.

But we all see it coming.

The clouds rolling in the distance.

The fears that we all harbor,

Slowly becoming a reality.

It all seems distant at first.

As if the storm would never cross our path.

But as sure as the sun will rise bringing a new day,

The rain will fall.

Sometimes it seems to happen so fast,

But it always seems to take decades

For the rain to finally dry.