I am the middle child,
Though I have no siblings
To speak of.
Growing up a heathen among lambs,
I emerged from the blessed pool
A member of the cult of liberated women.
Out of my own distorted sense of sexuality,
I arrived with a label that designated me
With the right to love all -
She, her, him, they.
So why is it then, that I am still unclean?
My creator told me once that
I came off the assembly line
With a crack in my chassis.
See, I have this switch embedded
In the deep recesses of my mind,
That can allow me to only appreciate
The aesthetic of sharp lines and flat planes;
But then, I sink too deep into the scent
Of azalea, and I salivate at the thought
Of soft curves, running my tongue
Along plump flesh, and Oh!
I lost my admission to heterosexuality.
I am the cellophane blanketing
Every celebration of liberty and pride.
Marching along the same sacred ground,
My ancestors rioted for the right
To be visible, to be sanctioned a people;
And yet, my boyfriend’s arm around
My waist is the burden that I haul.
I scrutinize the overwhelming list
Of binding entrance rules,
Only to find myself drowning
In waves of haughty rebels
That dictate I’m not “gay enough to ride” -
I lost my way to the left side of the spectrum.
I peer into the static-covered looking glass,
Only to watch myself dissolve.
Piper, Catherine, Frank, or Queen Sophie Anne
Are not me. They are poorly illustrated
Cartoons of people like me.
I am not promiscuous, confused, and blood-lusting,
Nor am I the forgettable adjutant in your
Breath-taking! ****! Highly marketable YA novel.
I am the middle child, and I demand more.
This poem is dedicated to all of my bi, pan, and trans brethren that have made their home the middle of the sexuality spectrum. We are all middle children and we are all beautiful humans.