I forget that reading week
Has a hold on me
Five fingers wrapped around my throat
Holding me under
Under the sheets
Trapped in my head
Fighting myself
And the thoughts that bubble over after being hidden for so long
Are deafening

Why did they make us believe it was bad? That we were "criminals" for how we felt?
HE KILLED HIMSELF
for the feelings he could not control.
So why
did my parents keep quiet when the topic came around.
Did they believe the same?
That we were monsters in need of curing?

If  I die it was always -----. I'd chose her til the day I die. I wish she were a boy. So we could do it right.

I have to think of you as a memory. Neither a happy nor sad one, just a memory. When we meet again it will be like seeing an old friend or lover, a distant memory of the time once shared.