I grew up in stories where I didn’t exist,
where heroes had one kind of love,
one kind of body,
one kind of life.
I tried to fit into their shapes,
pretending the jagged edges of me
weren’t there, weren’t wrong,
but the puzzle never closed.
Then I found whispers,
small lights in the dark:
words, faces, colors I didn’t know
but recognized in my chest.
A label, a community, a home —
suddenly I could breathe.
I could stretch, I could laugh,
I could be the me I’d been hiding.
I was free.
I was welcome.
I belonged.
Then the world returned.
Family didn’t see me.
Peers mocked me.
Strangers spat their fear.
I walked streets like a ghost,
curving my body, bending my voice,
hiding pieces of myself
from everyone.
Some nights, I imagined disappearing,
how quiet the world would be,
how easily someone could vanish
and no one would understand
the weight that builds inside.
Every glance, every word, every shove
reminded me how many never make it,
how fragile we really are.
Every word carried caution.
Every touch, a risk.
Love, once bright, grew tight and careful,
a tension threading our days,
stretching across every hallway,
every crowded room,
every street.
We laughed, but laughter trembled.
We kissed, but even that carried fear.
Other nights, I held them close
feeling the world pressing through the windows,
through whispers,
through the judgement we could not escape.
I loved fiercely, desperately,
even while our hearts flinched
from a world that would not let us shine.
And still, I remember
the first time I let myself exist fully,
even for a moment —
the sunlight on my skin,
the laughter shared without caution,
the joy that no one could take away.
That taste of freedom stays,
even when the world tells me to shrink.
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 8:17 PM UTC
I grew up in stories where I didn’t exist,
where heroes had one kind of love,
one kind of body,
one kind of life.
I tried to fit into their shapes,
pretending the jagged edges of me
weren’t there, weren’t wrong,
but the puzzle never closed.
Then I found whispers,
small lights in the dark:
words, faces, colors I didn’t know
but recognized in my chest.
A label, a community, a home —
suddenly I could breathe.
I could stretch, I could laugh,
I could be the me I’d been hiding.
I was free.
I was welcome.
I belonged.
Then the world returned.
Family didn’t see me.
Peers mocked me.
Strangers spat their fear.
I walked streets like a ghost,
curving my body, bending my voice,
hiding pieces of myself
from everyone.
Some nights, I imagined disappearing,
how quiet the world would be,
how easily someone could vanish
and no one would understand
the weight that builds inside.
Every glance, every word, every shove
reminded me how many never make it,
how fragile we really are.
Every word carried caution.
Every touch, a risk.
Love, once bright, grew tight and careful,
a tension threading our days,
stretching across every hallway,
every crowded room,
every street.
We laughed, but laughter trembled.
We kissed, but even that carried fear.
Other nights, I held them close
feeling the world pressing through the windows,
through whispers,
through the judgement we could not escape.
I loved fiercely, desperately,
even while our hearts flinched
from a world that would not let us shine.
And still, I remember
the first time I let myself exist fully,
even for a moment —
the sunlight on my skin,
the laughter shared without caution,
the joy that no one could take away.
That taste of freedom stays,
even when the world tells me to shrink.
Finding yourself—and then realizing the world still isn’t ready for you.
