Guess what
You are not what you think your are
You may think your lips are ugly
I still want them on mine
You may think your hips are fat
I still want to put my hands on it
You may think your face is ugly
I still want to caress it
You may think your figure is unattractive
I still want to feel it pressed up against me
You may think you are stupid
I still want to talk to you
You may think your scars are ugly
I still want to hear every story
You may think your eyes are ugly
I still get lost in them
You may think your nose Is ugly
I still want to give it a rub with mine
You may think you are needy
I still want to hold you
You may think you are rude
I still prefer your company
You may dislike every part of yourself
I will still disagree with you
Now and until my breath completely runs out

You may hateyourself
But I still love you

Dearest Reader,


My name is Margot Dylan, and I'm a pariah.

On the 16th of April, I told my mother that I was gay. She threw the clay mug that I made for her before she found out I was gay, against the floral, peeling wallpaper mess of a wall, in our kitchen. The decaffeinated peppermint green tea left a wonderful aroma that almost cleansed the room of the stench of 'lesbian'.

I met Dylan Dunham a few days after that, and, a few days later, she was the first girl that I ever loved.

Dylan wore a red flannel jacket, and was a butch and sometimes a *****-but I loved her even at her tomboy cruelest.

Dylan smoked a cigarette that smelled like lonerism, and she looked at me like she didn't care. My heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds, whenever she would remove the cigarette from her mouth, exhale, and look at me as smoke traveled up her face. I looked at her and knew that she was everything that I wasn't, and everything that I wanted.

Dylan was Dianne, before and after school. Dylan was Dianne, who wore floral dresses and lipstick and who ditched her butch clothing in her locker before leaving. Dylan was Dianne, who was straight and who thought Tyler Wesson, from church, was cute. Dylan was Dianne, who had a short hair cut because of track and field, because she explained that she ran a faster time with less hair. Dylan was Dianne, who didn't associate with me before or after school because her parents knew that I was gay.

During school hours, the only thing Dylan did keep from Dianne was the lipstick. I was envious of the cigarette because of it's burgundy stains. We would stand in a stall, as she looked across from me, after each drag. She frequently offered her cigarettes, but I refused because I only let love **** me. If she ever brought alcohol, sometimes she'd kiss me. I told her that I loved her and she said, "I know."

The only thing that Dylan kept from me was my heart, before she started to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom with Annie Way.


I wish you the best moments so they can overcome the worst,

Margot Dylan

I was asked, why do I write and all I could think of to say,
was because I believe.

I believe looks matter.
There is
healing in a look of compassion,
love in understanding,
comfort in tears cried with me.

But one look away, ignoring
can break a heart.


I believe touch matters.
There is
care enclosed in a hug,
relief in a hand placed on a shoulder,
encouragement in a touch on the passing by.

But pulling away, distance
can break a heart.


I believe words matter.
There is
acceptance in words of forgiveness,
restoration in mercy and grace,
healing in kind, soothing whispers.

But one word out of bitterness, hatred
can break a person.


I write because I believe words matter.
I write because I believe you matter.

Sometimes it takes
thousands of words
to heal a broken soul

and I want to tell you,

I will write
word after word,
paragraph after paragraph,
page after page.
As long as it takes,
I will write until you finally believe
that you matter.