growing up.

you were four when you faked your first crush. you told your friends that you didn’t have one, but they laughed at you and ripped at you with their words until you chose one. you chose a boy who seemed the least awful. you chose him and your friends laughed, tore you down with even more words. “why him?” they asked. you didn’t know. “he’s nice,” you said. most boys weren’t nice to their female peers, but that’s a whole other issue.

 

you were six when you kissed your best friend. she laughed, and you laughed and it felt normal. “girls don’t do that with other girls,” her mom said when she saw, her voice sharp and eyes cold. you went home confused and embarrassed, and didn’t touch any of your friends for weeks after that, suddenly unsure of how much affection was allowed. you found out ten years later that her mom sat her down and scolded her for another half an hour after you left.

 

you were nine when a boy from the back of the bus leaned around the seat to talk to you. “are you a lesbo?” he asked, sticky and badly dressed. you didn’t know what that word meant. he said, “a girl who likes girls.” you wanted to say yes, because all of your friends were girls, but something in his tone said that you should say no. you shook your head, and he laughed in your face. you glared at the back of the seat in front of you for the rest of the drive.

 

you were eleven when you were on a pumpkin patch field trip and you heard a song on the radio about a girl kissing a girl. all of your friends knew the words, and you were excited to actually enjoy a popular song along with everyone else. you went home singing it, and your dad looked at you with the same sharp look you’d seen years before. “we don’t sing about things like that,” he said. it wasn’t discussed further, even though you prodded him with “why, why, why?”

 

you were thirteen when you got news that a boy had a crush on you, and your stomach filled with nothing but dread. you decided that those were called butterflies, but felt exposed and anxious every time he held your hand. you tried to convince yourself that he was nice and funny and that you should like him. you still flinched back every time he put his arm around you.

 

you were fourteen when you let a girl leach all the life from you for almost a year because you didn’t know that you deserved better. she pulled you down to her level; she told you that you were the only person who was good to her. you couldn’t admit to yourself that you liked girls, and she knew that. she dug into you with her sharp nails and tore you away from your friends. you didn’t know who you were and she convinced you she was the only one who understood.

 

you were fourteen when you heard a boy in class call you a dyke. the school counselor asked, “are you?” and you knew the answer but you said “of course not.” you sat in shame and fear and watched as no disciplinary action was taken. you punched the boy in the face a month later, and felt vindicated, though you weren’t sure what you were avenging.

 

you were fifteen when you met a couple with matching flower-print tourist shirts and grey hair. they had thirty years of love between them and a foosball table in their basement. you watched them hold hands and beam at each other. you watched them and heard the word lesbian as a blessing, not an insult. they smiled at you and you knew who you were in an instant.

 

you were sixteen, and you had a cute girlfriend, one that embodied a summer’s day. you had grown accustomed to self-sufficiency and distrust, and that meant you had to fight yourself to communicate well. you loved her. you borrowed her sweatshirts and skyped her when she toured with a marching band. the two of you lasted a year, and she let you down a little too gently. you kept her sweatshirt because you didn’t know what else to do.

 

you were sixteen and you heard that forty-nine people had been shot in a club because they were like you. you drove to school with your hands shaking, your lungs feeling like they were filled with sand, but eyes dry because you were too scared to let anyone know you were affected. the news people on the radio didn’t even mention that it was a gay club, because they needed all the audience they could scrape together in a town conservative enough that the gender-sexuality alliance club has been bullied down to two members. maybe you’d already put yourself in danger by telling anyone who you loved.

 

you were sixteen and seeing election coverage and praying. you held your friend’s hand because she was as terrified as you were. you broke backstage etiquette rules, refreshing the webpage whenever you ran into the dressing room between scenes of the music man. your drugstore foundation was melting off and you prayed that you and your friends would be safe. you prayed that the loud, baseball-capped boy in your class would stop hissing slurs at you and your friends. you prayed that swastikas would stop being scratched into the desks at school. you were sixteen and sobbing into your mom’s shoulder that night, completely enraged.

 

you were seventeen and you went to pride for the first time, a muggy day where you got heat exhaustion and your feet and hands swelled up from dehydration--but your heart was the lightest it had been in years. you climbed up on a streetlight with your friend to see over the crowd. you’d been feeling run-down lately, the routine of keeping quiet starting to pull at you, and even watching the parade, you were worried that someone with a gun was going to ruin the best afternoon of your year. you dared to feel proud, tossing a free fluffy feather boa over your shoulder and laughing. a beautiful woman with a pink and blue flag handed you a rainbow sticker and you lit up like a sunrise.

 

you’re eighteen now. you wish you could tell six-year-old, eight-year-old, nine-year-old, fourteen-year-old you that you deserved better. right now, you wish an older version of you would tell you if it really gets better than this. you’re banking on eventually being happy in an apartment with a beautiful wife and a cat or five, but all you can do is wait, which is harder on some days than others. you’re planning on one day being out to everyone you know, but you hold your tongue for now, which is harder in some catholic classrooms than others. the place you’ve come from has made you a little too angry and a little too cynical and a little too guarded, but you’re alive.

 

you’re eighteen and not giving up yet.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

neongravestones

This poem is wonderful! Is it okay if I use it as part of an english project I have to do? We have to identify an ailment in society (I chose social injustice) and right now I'm focusing on the struggles of the LGBTQ+ community. I would have to print out and analyze your poem, as well as post it on a website I created along with the other poems I've chosen. I will give you complete credit because this is an amazing work and frankly, I'd like to share it with others. I totally understand if you are not okay with it, so just let me know and if you're fine with it, please let me know if you would like me to credit you with your username or your actual name. Wow, okay, this sounds like an email for some reason. Oof. Anyway, thanks and please continue writing! This was beautiful!

 

jvanderput

I'd love it if you would use my poem! My name is Jocelyn van der Put if you would like to credit me that way. I really apreciate it, and good luck with your project.

neongravestones

Thank you so much! I'll definitely credit you that way and I'll make sure that I send you a link to the website. Have a wonderful day/night wherever you are!

neongravestones

Here's the link to the website! For some reason it won't let me add the link as is, so just add everything without spaces to your search bar. Have a wonderful day!

https:// pioneerofprogress .tumblr .com / 

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