They all look at me asking who I am trying to be,

but the answer I can give is not one that does justice to the mentality of things.

I am trying to be a variation of me that still lies beneath these molecular cells,

it breathes in the chemicals of life laced with pesticides, and I feel it dying.

So I scream, scream to myself as a reminder that all of life does not need an explanation

I scream to myself so that I may hear myself over top the flow of an interstate of drowning faces

I scream to myself so that I may hear something natural instead of the mechanical whiz of innovation

I am trying to be a me that is open to the possibility that I may not be picturesque porcelain

I have spent years stacked upon years, possibly wasting my existence, trying to replicate happiness

The happiness is not for me; it’s given to my parents in the oppressive form of what they see fit to represent me;

What happens if the image shatters and all that is left is the broken remains of years past?

Will the inner secrets that keep me spinning on the pedestal bleed out in black ooze?

I can hear their cries and pleads now as they try to reassemble me in a frantic haze that will leave me solid as stone but missing the components that built me into who I was;

They’ll examine each piece and calculate how it will benefit me so that I will be a perfectly functioning math machine that will create innovations in the world to renew its resources

But I will no longer find a love for books, or a passion for words, or find simplicity in the way the birds chirp

I will no longer lie by a window and daydream a fantasy

where I can finally come out to a world where it is okay to say,

Maybe I am gay.

I have said the word and I feel myself broken,

bleeding from the inside with ribs cracked under the pressure of perfection,

but I must go on.

Because I have words to speak and messages to preach

So that possibly one day, a generation will be born that will not understand hate.

The world will hear my words and take into consideration the definition of compassion;

We all preach the message of freedom, governors and senators promoting themselves on the singular word,

But I ask you and ask them, where is my freedom?

When will I look to our great flag and see within its entwined fibers my future as well?

But I have yet to decide that future because I am scared,

scared to hear the remarks and retorts of people that claim they understand the meaning behind equality.

They serve the word on a golden platter during every philosophy class,

but it falls short when religion enters the context.

Equality is a noun that states regardless of race, gender, income, as long as we are human we matter, but I have yet to see this noun converted to a verb that will take action.

I was born into a place where the color of my skin and the level of my intelligence gave me the opportunity to surpass all expectations

But something went wrong within the genetic hardwiring that developed me into a somewhat stable being;

That simple misconnection of wires somehow made me “immoral” and ineligible for the same respect bestowed to others.

I find myself asking, is this only true because society finds religious text more sacred than the rights of their children?

So please hear me out, world,

maybe the color of my skin,

how far I am under the poverty line,

how confused I am on my orientation,

should not be the criteria to determine my quality of freedom.

I do good deeds, and I struggle for what is right, so I cannot help but find myself deserving a portion more than what you would give a sex offender.

So please hear me out, world, when I say,

I’m starting to not give a fuck what you find politically correct.