some days, i feel the guilt churn in my gut,
like my insides have been replaced with syrup,
and i’m slowly being swallowed and crystallized in amber.
every secret i’ve kept from you whispers, begs to come out of my mouth,
because you love an illusion. but you’ve given the illusion so much love.

other days, i set the guilt on fire.
i feel oh so angry at you, for keeping us apart (unknowingly),
and i want to see your perfect world fall away,
as you realize that you’ve been living and loving,
me. the illusion.

underneath everything, i am tired.
i see circles like black holes form around tired bright eyes.
i see a lover, even though you think i do not have such love.
i see a secret, that burns like fire and strikes like storm.

you still see your happy girl
-but i am all that and so much more.

my dreams are still the same, my mother.
but there is another.
i dream that we walk together, i dream of her voice,
i dream of her in the night when i am alone and wonder why we can’t fall asleep hand in hand.

your lovely illusion is long gone,
resting in a beautiful of childhood
-with happy days, textbooks, the loud and strong proclamations:
saying that anyone who found such a love was a fool.

gone is the girl who you tell me about:
“i’m so proud that you listen to us and share our values -you’re wonderful.”
some days my mind screams
i do, i do, i do.

and others, it sneers are you.
it wants the ugly words to burst out like a swarm of angry bees
-yes i do. but i dream of women in ways you never would.
your perfect world would shatter, and we’d be destroyed.
my illusion holds it all together.

and i look up, and i see the day where no one needs my illusion anymore.
i’ll come to you with her, someone, her and sit down and tell you everything.
i was 15, mom. i love her. and whether i wish for it or not
-her world will shatter.

then i wonder, if she’ll be there one day.
i imagine walking down an aisle of roses.
i imagine flying to somewhere far away to ask for blessings
-their perfect worlds will shatter. to them, we’re barely not criminals.
but i hope they love us still.

and sometimes i imagine you,
and me,
in a place where we don’t have to worry.
doing things with each other that no one would ever imagine
-where no one will ever find out.

why is it such a crime to love you?
i love you. against all odds, i love you.

i love you when i’m told that love like ours is not the way we were made -that its disgusting.
i love you when people look at us and wonder who we are.
i love you when i worry about someone finding out about us.
i love you when i hate the world for trying to tear us apart.
i love you when someone says love.

sometimes, i think that is what i hide.
a long silk skirt of realities and lies,
swirling around our love.
and oh, that skirt casts a light like broken glass shards.