Who are you to tell me, “It gets better?” Who are you to spew the lies so far from the truth, claiming that I shouldn’t be upset because one day queers might finally be free from this faulty fiasco modern society has become? Do you really think we’re that dumb? Do you seriously think we don’t realize that we’re denied basic freedoms just because we don’t conform to the tiresome stereotype of heterosexual whoredom? We know most people think of us as the Sinners of Sodom; we know most people sigh and sob when their kids say, “Hey Mum, Dad, I…I-I think I might be gay.” We know there’s no other way. Society simply isn’t ready to set aside a sanctuary for those of us who aren’t straight, who aren’t “real” men. We know we’ve been damned to perpetually be second-class citizens.

I’ve always known this, and because of it, I used to write poetry as a child. I was always trying to deal with being treated like a monster: a rabid creature, feral and wild. I wrote each verse hoping the lines would fall into place and form a fence—or even a cage—to hide the fact that I was gay. I was feared for my sexual preference; feared because I broke the idiom; feared because I proved that opposites don’t always attract. I heard the hate time and time again and eventually, the feral side of me began to bubble to the surface of my skin, manifesting as shameful thoughts of suicide, thoughts of silence, of sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I could never sleep because the pain kept coming back; the hunters kept chasing me, trying to destroy the wild monster society saw in me.

Silver was always my weakness. The hunters would use it to slay the feral beast I would become. Except there were no hunters. And there wasn’t really even any silver. There was only the reflective surface of the steel blade, a siren who sang sickening songs about salvation and sustentation. I tried to resist the solemn song, the constant, gruesome melody mocking me over what I had become. But I couldn’t do anything to stop it. The hate came from everywhere: from my peers, my family, and even from myself. And so I sliced. Some families have the Thanksgiving turkey; I had my forearm. I would paint a masterpiece every time, each swish and swipe leaving a new trail of crimson or scarlet on the soft canvas of broken skin, each line telling a different story: novels of hate, fables of fear, and parables of ignorance. Some people would call me a prodigy for creating such wondrous works of art when I was so young. But in reality, most of them would just glare at me while shaking their heads because they thought this artwork was my fault, because I chose to live in the wrong. Because I was a faggot, and I wasn’t strong.

And so I tried to run from the hunters, from the different motivations in my messed up mind. I got better; I thought I was finally safe, tucked away in a corner on the opposite side of reality from the suicidal shouts and susurrations coming from my mind. I started to think I could save the world, and so I stopped the slicing and started searching for ways to make society a safer place. I thought I could help lay the foundation for a sanctuary for the sexually-queer. But then I grew up and realized I would never be the world’s messiah, and realized that hate would always run rampant regardless of any protests, logic, or debates. Occasionally, I hear the worrying whispers of the hunters and the thuds of their approaching footsteps as they get closer and closer, but I still fight, still run to stay as far away from the scent of my own blood. So tell me again, “It gets better,” and I’ll call you a liar right to your face. It’s going to take decades to get any better for people like me.

Sometimes, we just have to get stronger.