At the age of twelve, I first stumbled upon
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘯𝘦 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬.
Within the pages of her sanctum, she confessed
an innocent curiosity that defied
society’s paradigms of sexuality.
It was quite subtle,
yet it indelibly etched itself into my mind.

It was my first glimpse into queerness,
and a catalyst for my journey
of learning how to conceal it.

I swallowed the reveries that followed,
tucking them away within the alcoves of my mind.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯.
Taught to
sew my mouth shut
and call it discipline,
not to get angry
for rage is unflattering on a
𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 like me.

This mouth is wallpaper.
𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀?

𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭,

          𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵.  

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥

              𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘨𝘭𝘺

                        𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘺

                                𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘳𝘵.