For awhile life was painted gray
There were colors of love sitting dormant inside

Love that shines brightest is seen as a threat
Life couldn’t take something that was so true and bright
  
This cruel world cannot dim the colors of our souls
Let’s paint this dark world with color once again

eyes burn
from sights of him

talents, seeable from afar
my hand in his firm

unchangeable distances
separate, goodbye

“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks
“Their name’s Bea,” I reply
“I support that,” they hesitate
“You are so brave.” they add

I never saw their lips as a political statement
Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat
while a friend is puking by the side of the road
Was some kind of revolution

How romantic is it
That our story will be etched
Not in some Neruda poetry book
But a professor’s first textbook
Or a college student’s 2 am essay

When I said I was in love
You thought it meant I was hungry
Not for touch or for pleasure
But for justice and freedom
I didn’t know that
When I run my fingers down her neck
It would be tied to a long Twitter thread

I never saw my love as a battleground
A metaphysical exploration of sexuality
What’s Marxist about the way their eyes
disappear when they smile?
What’s so intersectional about
Our entanglement at the back seat
Or our hands holding in front

I never thought I would be so brave
At my most fragile state
So political
In my most dumbstruck ways
So woke
When I’m asleep in her embrace

Mirrors like to lie.
Reflecting a 'girl'.
An image of an old self,
a mannequin.

it's hard when
you finally understand yourself
but then realise
no one will ever accept you
for who you are

My sexuality should not define me over the fact that I am a human being.
Just because I am in love does not mean I’m a child
“I love a girl,” I told my mom as I smiled
She looks at me questioning ready for the lecturing
“You’re just confused” she does not know this destroys
Just play along alright, “okay I guess I like boys”
Even though I like a queen rather than a king

This is my home this small lonely closet
So claustrophobic as these walls are closing in
all because of all of my so-called sins
I just wish I could be honest
So that this stops suffocating me
Running out of oxygen without the key
To open the door and get away from where I sit

I decide I will not remain silent
“Mom,” I say “I’ve never felt this way with anyone before.”
She pushes me back and closes the door
The world treats me like my sexuality is violent
The longer I stay the more I know
That this is not a choice and I am not in this solo
Although this closet makes my world view seem bent

When I see this girl my world slowly slips away
and I can’t find a way to hide how I feel
But I have to choose, the so-called safety of the closet or this amazing thrill
She touches my face bringing her lips to mine
as we sit in our sin our eyes get wide
We ignore it and pretend that we don’t care.

The first moment I was who I truly am.
The oxygen
oh how good it felt to breathe freely.
The closet
for even a moment far behind me.

they were talking about me in school today
like i wasn’t there.
they were talking about my sexuality
as if it were a debate topic.
they discuss my sexuality like i don’t cry myself to sleep thinking about it.
i hate myself for who i am,
and i hate myself even more for the way i hate myself
for the things i can’t control.
the gossip will continue.
my sexuality will be a discussion for years to come.
from myself and from people who don’t even know me
who think they know me
the kids that talked about me today did.
they knew my sexuality even before i did.

In the night, I pretend to feel warmth
of your body and hands, big and strong,
wishing not to wake up, not to feel
this cold absence of you (too real).
I escape to the fantasy—
—stop,
loose myself in the ecstasy—
—don't!
Would you think of me less if you knew
that I wish to not see morning dew?
But the sun will come out anyway,
painting all of my dreams with cold grey...
After making another mistake,
I sit here, on our bed, wide awake.
Slender body beside is not yours.
I'm not fooled: It's not love – it's remorse.

Here, I crumble in this morning light,
feeling all the effects of last night.
He'll wake up and pick up all his stuff,
look at me and breathe out: "that's enough."
He will leave; there isn't much I can give
to him now, as your absence I grieve.
One day, maybe, I'll see him for him,
Embrace on purpose — not on a whim.
Would you deem me a cheat if I flee
to his arms and pretend to be free
from this loss, maybe learning to heal?
Would you blame me for wanting to feel
his—another man's—warmth in our bed
that hasn't been warm at all since you left?