When straight people complain about their boy problems and say: “I wish I liked girls. It would be so much easier.”

and I begin to wonder where along the line you mistook my pride for easy.

Given the choice, I wouldn’t change any of it, and yet I do not wish this on you.

The same way my moms’ faces dropped, their eyes hitting the floor every time they saw I liked girls just as much as they did.

I don’t know how to tell you about the first moment I knew my ex was in love with me,

how we hugged each other goodnight for twenty minutes, her eyes staring out my dorm window into the full moon, and she cried quietly, her chin locked on my shoulder, and I didn’t have to say anything the whole time my arms whispering “I know. I know.”

There is nothing easy about loving like you are saying sorry over and over.

There is nothing easy about living like you are saying sorry over and over.

When you tell me to get over it, say “fuck that bitch” and shake your head at how I still answer every time she calls out to me, when you suggest I forget her, like I can lay down all the memories and the worry with my tongue between the legs of other women,

tell me how easy it could be, but,

the thing is, I don’t know how to fuck myself out of loving someone I survived with.

You chandelier your love delicate and diamond and all I know how to do is fear it’s untimely fall piercing my whole existence.

When was the last time you imagined your death?

And did it happen between cocktails and club beats?

I do not cackle into the moonlight of late nights, I exude joy the way I learned how to — star-like, silent but fucking miraculous and burning up the whole sky, my hips swinging, hands touching, dancing in the humid dark, alone together, all of us, moving to a rhythm I beg does not meet sneer and hate crime. Body rolling and side stepping my unwritten eulogy into the floor, as if to pray my body invisible and yet so visible in the flashing lights of the gay club.

And I wish this was easy.

I kiss girls and behind closed eyes think about what my face would look like dragged into the pavement.

I miss girls and behind closed eyes think about what my body would look like underneath the pavement, meaning:

Living and dying always looked similar to me. Meaning my love is the soil hiding underneath everything, meaning in the soles and of the soul and dirty and life giving, anyway. My love is the ground holding me up.

My love is so big it wraps around the Earth’s crust. I have magma for marrow,

my fast heart beat earthquakes me to remember how I wake to lay the ground out in front of me, to keep kissing and missing and losing and standing my ground.

I keep my feet dug into the cracks to remember where I come from and where I am going all at once.

I was born with a heavy and a dark and an endless longing.

This can be called many things

but it is never



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