the princess locked herself away
behind tall walls of grey
so no one could see her die inside
and she can hide behind her pride

the dashing rogue saw these walls
she wanted to explore its halls
she wanted to see every inch
and find out why she's so quick to flinch

the rogue found an ornate gate
but saw the lock and had to wait
but she's impatient to see her free
so she set out to find the key

she travelled far and wide
to where the dragon resides
at the top of the highest mountains
surrounded by deadly lava fountains

the golden key dangled from its neck
beneath wicked teeth that kept you in check
but the rogue devised a cunning plan
to get the key as quick as she can

with clever words, she tricked the dragon
to give the key without any nagging
so back down the mountain, she walked
to match the key with the lock.

I've been crying again but don't worry, I’ve been trying to understand myself and my sexuality since I was young, i came out as bi just to see if the label fit but it feels too controlling and the box gets a bit smaller each time I say the word, I’ve lied to friends about hook ups that never happened and have pretended to enjoy kinks for people I'll never meet in real life. I feel a disconnect to who I'm trying to be and I don't know if I'm scared of accepting myself or if I'm scared of someone getting too close for me to learn it hurts. How do I explain to my friends that I don't understand when they complain about not being with someone for a few weeks when it's been years and how do I know when I'm telling myself the truth and when I'm picking another label, I need someone to tell me what to do but there's no one to ask so I'll keep going until I understand.

even if your name
doesn't match the one on your drivers licence
or birth certificate:
be proud

even if your pronouns
aren't the ones they use at
family gatherings or birthday parties:
be proud

even if the one you love
isn't the one you're with:
be proud

even if who you are
isn't who you want to be
right now:
be proud

even if people
don't understand
and still use slurs:
be proud

even if you have to fight
to stay visible:
be proud

even if you're not okay:
be proud

Blood is thicker than water.

I'm nine years old and my mother had sighed us both up for a dieting course.

At eighteen I still see how interchangeable fatness and ugliness are to her.

I still have to stop myself from thinking of skipping meals after I ate "too much".

Clinging to the fear of the slippery ***** that serves as my only guard.


I see it in my friends too,
comforted by their opposition for what my mother had embraced like gospal for the helpless fools.



Blood is thicker than water.

I like the hairs on my body.
The short and soft strands that cover my legs, blonde and black and all too
natural.

Removing them leaves my legs red and *****-*****- pickling for days but-

My sister laughs through a wrinkled nose,
My cousin tells stories, horrified, of women like me,
Mother says it's unhygienic and would not let me leave the house like this.


I haven't worn shorts in years.

But my friends' confident '*******' to everyone who isn't them,
who dares control their bodies and shame them into pain or hiding,

makes me feel like one day I might wear them again.



Blood is thicker than water,

I find it hard to talk to people.
The thought of discussing anything more than trivial matters makes my lunges heavy in my chest.

Talking to my parents- a heavy led filling what seem less and less like lungs with every passing second.

Talking to my friends- the heaviness doesn't always go away, but the weight doesn't get harder to bear.


I heard my mother tell a friend how her kids talk to her about everything.

A bitter laugh never tasted so much as the sea.



Blood is thicker than water,

Since I can remember myself, I never wanted kids.
Took me years so unveil why.

The dismissal cut deep when Mother assumed she knew me better than I do, a cruel arrogance for what she must only consider her property.
'You'll change your mind and give me grandchildren'

A payment for my life-
"Interest" she calls it.



Blood is thicker than water,

When I came out to you, dear parents, you once again ignored me

as if I hadn't tortured myself enough,

as if it hadn't taken me years trying to accept myself before you turned your back on me with cruel dismissal.

As if I don't still struggle.


All I have left is to fall back on my friends' support again,

being caught in their loving embrace without ever asking to.



They say you can't choose your family but-

the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

That relatable gay dream of running away,
Wind blowing through what's left of your hair,
the first ties to be cut.

That relatable gay fear, questions you'd rather not asked and that subsequent relatable gay sorrow after the answers.

That relatable gay loneliness, all hollow spaces and devoted secrecy.
Bitten back tongues and hidden colors.

That relatable gay moment of finding love in your friends.
Not the kind that you kiss but the kind you hold dear in the night,
as tears drip from cheeks to shoulders.

That relatable gay plan of holidays with your other gay friends, a real family, the one who would love you no matter what.
Cheers and queers and all too far away.

That relatable gay longing for love-
true love-
Like the kind they never show in fairytales,
Real and supportive, never hidden away or forgotten.

That relatable gay anger,
Boiling from injustice always under the surface,
Waiting to erupt in pointless shouts of grief for a world that was not built for me.

That relatable gay exhaustion, hostile slurs and benignant apathy blending together into a reality of unending fights just to keep on existing.

So when someone asks me what makes you a community I show them all those relatable gay moments of anguish and loss, of solemn support and stolen minutes.

And I tell them of how terrible it is that they are so very relatable,
But how wonderful it is that we could at least live through them together.

I want to be kissed the same way I once craved adventure;
A little girl, dreaming of climbing mountains, of quests just like the ones in her books.

The same girl dreams now of the gentleness of soft hands cradeling my face, of stars in my eyes and giggles in the night.

I want to be kissed the same way I once craved adventure;
In theory.

I want not the cuts and bruises from the stones, the unbearable sun beating down at me as I climb higher and higher.

I want not the relationship, strange lips meeting mine.
I don't want to see a face all too close, to know its details or hear its name.

I don't want to be kissed.
I want the fantasy of romance, the love of the story, the soft gestures of imagination.

If I am but a character of my own creation,
then I don't want the story to come true.

I have two things hidden in my closet:
Your birthday gift and my pride flags.

I ran to my room and tore them down from the walls the moment our company has arrived,
Preserving our doll house image.
The natural heterosexuallity I've learned to imitate.

So,
I suppose in a sense,
I have two gifts for you hidden in my closet.

Mother,

No metaphor can describe what I'm feeling.

No bird longing for freedom nor the flower growing in a rotting land will suffice.


You don't need to show your shame in sharp words,

your dismissal cuts deep enough.


I told you who I am and you erased it like it was written on a white board,

black dust sticking to your fingers.


My voice, echoing on deaf ears.

The walls, stronger than me.

Better listeners then you.


I imagine tearing off my flags from the closet door.

Ripping then to shreds then sobbing over their loss.


I hang them there to remind myself to be strong.

How weak is it then, that one word from you left me staring at them in silence.

A dull pain replacing the thumping of my heart.


How weak is it then, that this poem, which will never reach you,
left me crying hot, dripping tears,

the first rain of the season.


You told me you accept me, a contract with white words written between the lines.

You told me you don't mind, I didn't take you for a liar.

You hugged me and I believed everything was fine.

I still do, in the silence between rain drops.


Did you know that a scoff can leave purple green bruises?

Healing slowly and alone.


You must know that words leave scars,

even if they are being said absently with the wave of your hand.

Perhaps especially so.


I told you who I am and your first reaction was to tell me I'll grow out of if,
as if I had discovered myself yesterday.

I explained and your second reaction was to treat it like an ideology,
as if it was ever a choice for me in the first place,
something to be learned.


You refused to listen further, I doubt that you've ever started to.


You didn't understand my fascination with wings taking flight before I told you.

You still hadn't connected the dots, the shackles of ignorance at my feet.


We are the flower.
Your behavior- the rotting land.

The growth- feet firmly on the ground, wings curled around my body, twitching to be let out.


I wonder, deep at night, if I will ever find the right metaphor.

I know that I won't.

There was solace in the quiet,
before you opened your mouth

And proved me wrong.

Like a hawk in a hunt, a fresh guard,
I held into my walls.

Surely they will accept me.
Surly they won't.
Black and white together, mixing into gray in a never ending spiral.

Long after you knew and hugged me a warm reassurance,
I told you, yet again, I have never been attracted to a man and probably never will

And you shot the bird out of the sky with your words of,
Never say never.