I loved you so much I hid everything

to make you smile. Well, not everything - 

just the things that would make you give me that look

like I'm the Starbucks Coffee you hate

so much. I wanted to be perfect and skinny and sane.

And heterosexual because - SURPRISE! - she suddenly 

wasn't and you thought it was something that you

did. (You never said that but you as good as scream it in your sleep.)

 

Remember that time you said her name instead of mine? You said

I love you and gave me the name of someone else who loved you and I was suddenly small and 

all I wanted was to replace her fully in your mind no matter how much of a mistake it was

and how much you promised you don't think of her anymore.

 

But my mind

cracked and fractured and bowed under the weight of all you wanted

but didn't say you wanted and you just implied through the way you touched me like I 

was almost a goddess.

 

So I used my illness as a chariot to get me away but you're still not out of my way and I still love

you and I don't want to stop loving you and I don't want you to forget me.

 

But if I told you

about the girl that turned my head.

But if I told you 

the dreams I have sometimes about the one I call Iris but who's name

you know and I could never tell you

about the time I almost kissed her.

But if I told you

that you are only one of three people who still don't know.

 

I'm bisexual. 

That does not diminish love.

And I wish you'd understand.

It doesn't mean I loved you less.

It just means that the world

opened a little bit when

I finally decided to stop

pretending to be the perfect you wanted.