They said I signed a contract with the devil when I liked my first girl, but I didn’t
even know cursive at the age of 6.
My dad told me that kids who pass away automatically go to heaven.
So at age 8 I wanted to die so I could
be set free from the anchor
secured on my ankle
by the bible that would show its weight when I died.
At 12, I started choking back the scream of “This isn’t a choice”
with sympathy for ignorance.
At 13, I had a dirty mouth. I swore that
if this were a choice
I wouldn’t have teeter-tottered to the side
of sin.
I swore that if this were an option, I
would wear
Charlotte Russe clothes more than I wear sweatpants on a Monday.
I swore that if this were a choice I would have chosen to be my
daddy’s little girl rather than a 1 a.m.
psych evaluation.
At the age of 15, I saw my first ballet in
the way
her eyes danced in the music of her smile.
At 16, I felt wrong for buying tickets,
so I started
wishing on 11:11 and shooting stars just
for a refund to be normal,
almost as if it were my prayer, but how
dare I be religious when religion doesn’t
accept me? I could say I don’t believe
in God because I’m afraid he won’t
believe in me.
At 17, psychiatrists gave me medication
to lock the doors to
the storm cellar of my mind for the tornado that’s going to
come when
I’m 18; turns out I’m no storm.
I’m a volcano erupting, and the lava’s
only hot
because your suppression let it boil for
so long.
Homophobics told me so they didn’t
confuse me with a boy,
to dress in dresses and skirts.
The bible tugged on that anchor day in
and day out
while society simultaneously asked me
to ignore the stares
I got when I walked into the bathroom.
I just had to deal with people asking me if
I was a girl
every time I had to pee in public.
I had to implement a fire escape in my
own mind because
they were burning holes in my temporal lobes with their
eyes, as if they were trying to get it in
my head that
this “lifestyle” is wrong.
My sexuality is no lifestyle.
My sexuality is no choice.
You see, they said I signed a contract
with the devil when I liked my first girl,
but I didn’t sign.
Society forged my signature.