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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required when we’re are children we are not aware of right or wrong there are no ultimately wrong people, just good people who do bad things as a child i watched my friends get married on the monkeys bars at recess, i got rejected during playtime but it was only because he “liked” me. growing up you realize at time your difference, the moment you gain full consciousness is always shining bright in the coroner of your forgotten memories. when i was a teenager i remember my friends around me talking about boys, the way they were gross, they’d spit piss and cry. i remember thinking “well why put up with such a thing?” and when i uttered those few sentences out loud my world changed forever “well…trust me if i could date girls i would!” a girl stated, my friends all giggled yet i felt so odd. i knew i could which made me feel almost the odd one out because well, why couldn’t i feel the same things as my friends?… when i was fourteen i saw women walk past me, i remember the way the sunset hit her blonde platinum hair, the silver lining on her brown belt, the way a stressful energy radiated off her as she strutted confidently. i couldn’t be more enchanted. but i thought, “surely this has to be envy of her! right?” some time later i remember distinctly hearing my friends make fun of a women for dressing more masculine as-well as calling her horrible names. i felt a dark sense of disgust in my stomach, yet i laughed along anyway- because somewhere deep in my heart i knew i was like her, i was the person my friends were calling cruel names, the person who was wrong and sinful and disgusting. i was her every time i stepped into a church i felt as if there was a sign plastered on my forehead repeating the words “SINNER”- i had never felt more shameful. ate the ripe age of 14 as the clock hit twelve i had prayed to whatever god out there to take this feeling away, to make me normal. all i wanted was to be like my friends- normal. i knew i liked boys i knew this for a fact, some would even call me “boy crazy” yet i couldn’t shake this sinful feeling in my head. that maybe there was more. so i hid it, i stuffed it into the furthest corridor inside my thoughts and refused to think it was real. yet when the clock hit midnight- the tears came. i relentlessly sobbed into my pink strawberry pillow as my parents slept, yearning for this horrible feeling to go away i remember counting how many hours i sobbed for- three.
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