“just a phase”

why is it so difficult to love me?

i’m still your little girl. you went to my volleyball games, introduced me to coffee ice cream, and took me to the beach, remember?

or did all of that just go away when you realized i wasn’t who you wanted me to be?

“it’s just a phase”

to love someone is not a phase

“just pick one”

how can i help it if i can see the beauty in all humans

“it’s wrong”

since when was it wrong to love

“it’s not how it’s meant to be”

then what is?

“i can’t watch”

then don’t.

i know you had a dream for me. get married to a strong, smart, handsome man. have three kids, and maybe a dog. live close by so you can help with the grandkids.

but since when did your dream for me take priority over my own? is it because you were the ones who created me, you think i should then follow the path you also created for me?

“think about the family”

is it so that you can still invite me to thanksgiving dinner twenty years from now and feel guilty about the disgusted looks from our relatives, wondering what you did wrong? so that you don’t have to say “it’s not our fault, there’s something wrong in her brain”

is it so that you can still go to church and not feel guilty in the house of god?

“the world won’t accept you”

the only people i cared about was you. you raised me, gave me everything i wanted and more. i just wanted to make you proud. the world doesn’t matter to me. the world’s a scary place, you say? you made home the scary place.

and you wonder why i always want to stay anywhere but home. i guess this is why they say our friends are our chosen family.

i tried to tell you once; it broke our family. we pretended it didn’t exist. i tried to tell you again; we splintered at the cracks. we pretended it didn’t exist—again.

so now i turn the channel when there’s a show with a woman and a woman, or a man and a man, so i can escape the worried stares and the inevitable question: “you’re not still like that, are you?”

i love you. and i know you love almost all of me.

but you took away my identity—one that to your knowledge never really existed.