If God made us the way we are, then what's to stop us from being gay?

Did you know that gay used to mean happy

In ancient times

Ancient, as in just a few years ago, when people were more civilized then us now

When they were afraid to speak up in fear of retaliation

It is no wonder that now, those who are out of the closet, are drunk on grandiose

When the uber religious try to shove their beliefs down your windpipe

Until it is so deeply embedded that no amount of surgery could take it out

If God hates us, then why would he have made us so perfect?

Who's to say it's even a he; when he could be a she

If the queen of all species hates us, then why did she create rainbows? Those same rainbows you let your children enjoy, the same rainbow colored toys that you insist are teaching your snot monster to be "gay"

Instead of worrying over how to survive that day, take the time to sit at home and relax

Drink away your stress with coffee or alcohol that burns not only your tongue but your body and runs an electrifying course like a river after a storm until it reaches your toes and back up to create chemical reactions in your brain; savor the bitter taste it leaves in your mouth and compare it to your past

Watch tv that is so lame you cannot help but laugh at the terrible irony and puns

Cry over somebody who does not love you and then go out and find someone who does

The point is, you are gay and they are not

The bells are tingling, crescendoing impatiently, creating a ruckus of taps within your chemically imbalanced head

Your hands shake with all the untold words, bottled up within your throat and unable to explode like a volcano of molten rock until people stand in shock and admire not the destruction but the beauty

You enclose yourself into a small corner as soon as their is an unknown force that you cannot adequately deal with and hope they leave soon so you can lower your defenses just a bit; for you are afraid of leaving the house and being stared down until you run away like a kicked dog with his tail tucked between his legs

You apologize for things you didn't do, not out of guilt but because you feel obligated to

For you see, when you have social anxiety it is hard to communicate with anyone, even yourself. You live in fear of saying the wrong thing, of messing something up, of splitting apart like an egg cracked in the middle and all the yolk spilling out beyond your hands reaches

When you were a child, you would ask the closest person to hold your hands and count to ten, and that closest person was usually yourself

Your heart flutters like a butterflies  wings flapping wildly in a storm

Your breathing shudders as you try urgently to not shed tears not from sadness but from fear

Some describe social anxiety as naught but a tiny fear when in reality it is more like treading open water in the middle of nowhere with no help in sight, and the waves threaten to push you down until you are far out of reach

Some imagine people with anxiety as being introverts, when in reality it also happens to extroverts. It happens to all races, genders, and sexualities

When you live with anxiety, it is all you can think about. You strategize how to survive each obstacle of the day

One thing you can tell them to do if you cross paths and you notice their shallow breathing and their shaking and sweaty palms is to just

Breathe.

Growing up, you wanted to be a princess. But you wanted to be your own hero. Insisting all you needed was a bit of love

They say, "No, a princess cannot wear a crown and suit"

Handed dolls, cars taken away

They say, "Oh, that's so gay!"

They say, "Hey, ******"

They say, "What a ***"

They say to grow up. Be a lady. Get some manners; grow a pair

But then you do, and they stare. Bonded with tape; compressed, hidden away from sight

Zachary,
Tucked away in your pocket. Except that pocket is your skin, your bones

They say

If you are one of us, then do this. But you cannot. There is not enough testosterone; not enough muscle

So they laugh. Say you are weak, and a liar

They say

This is a phase. You will regret it. It is simply not possible

Zachary does not exist. He is not real. You are just young

You do not know

You are a female. Despite your protests, they insist anyway

They say, "Have you seen it? Is it a boy or a girl? Is it gay or straight? It's an it. An it. It's a monster."

They say, "I bet I can make you straight" with their glint in their eyes, that have already lowered you, to that of dirt. And then, when you get hurt, it's your fault. For tempting them, for being yourself, not
theirs

They say
You are nothing

They say
You will get hurt. And they are right They do not lie, but they are dishonest

Whispers pass you. Pointing from children, and mothers shielding their eyes
"Don't look at that, it'll make you sick"

Adults of authority, giggling and taunting
Hushing each other, to no avail
Putting you in classes where you don't belong
Making you cry, when they do not listen
The urge to scream, "I am human, too. I deserve comfort"
Anxious to speak up, fear of being dismissed

People misgender you
Call you a girl, if you are a boy
And vise versa
Call you sir or ma'am, when you are neither, or both
You are afraid to speak up. Say, "No, that is not me"

Parents who don't understand. They all begin that way
Not believing, and blaming themselves
Educate them

Zachary is here, standing on his toes
Wishing,
To be seen
To be acknowledged
No longer a scab you feel the urge to pick;
No longer skin you feel the urge to tear
Zachary is here
He has always been here
He is not an it

The sun is so bright
And the sky is ocean blue
And the day is truly
As beautiful as you.

I've fallen in love with you
And its so beautiful and true and
These feelings I have for you
And I'll never let you go
Your in my heart to stay and
I'll love you more than anyone
Else in the world sweetheart
I just had to let you know.