If I could let you know,
again, how abnormal it is
to feel this wary of you,
and if you could
swallow the painful truth
that I am unique, and probably
different than you imagined,
or expected, me to be...
I would be at peace.
But every time we talk
you become defensive -
aggressive almost,
in your inability to accept
what you don’t understand.
I’m tired, can’t you see?
It’s exhausting when coming out
is more than one conversation,
when it requires a careful analysis
of every possible reaction,
so I’m not caught off-guard
like that first time.
How could I ever place
my full trust in you,
when you believe revelations
like these carry negative tones.
After all, you recently asked
if I’m still “you know”,
unable to give the words the respect
and dignity they deserve,
implying that you thought
it was just a phase.
If I say it soon,
the anxiety may continue to fester,
disrupting sleep, making me worry you’ll
discuss the validity of my “news” once
you retire to the safety of your bedroom.
The separation between us
will be too palpable
if you decide to make your lives
easier by treating me like a secret,
despite my declaration of the opposite.
But if I wait,
if I move away when the time is right,
whenever there’s an opportunity
in the next few years; if I send you a letter,
or an email, about what’s new,
I fear you will blame me somehow.
That you will act betrayed and wonder
why I never felt I could trust you,
transferring your guilt to me.
Except, I’m beginning to realize
you are not owed a dissertation,
annotated research of my identity.
I don’t question, anymore;
the only thing I question is your
resistance to change.
