Gay Rights, a word quickly slipping off American tongues,
breathing in deep gulps of air through
and the Human Rights Campaign.
White men, proud: they've been heard once more.
Young girls, mocked,
"Lesbian" is now so much more of a degrading term.
Worse, still, "Bisexual."
Erasure is the word I write.
Erasure of more than civil rights.
We may have permissions, overlooked by the Man,
but scoffed at by any man.
Erasure: much like an incorrect response on that calculus test.
I may tell you I relate, but you cry out that it isn't the same.
"You can still be with your love," you scream,
"no one is tearing down your flags."
Erasure: much like a misspelled word in an English essay.
"I am a villain in everyone's story," you preach.
You may be a villain, but at least you are written!
You are the villain in the stories of those who are against basic human rights,
a villain to those who fear themselves and a God who loves.
At least you are a villain in their stories.
You are hurt by the woman who bore you,
the men who sign your paychecks refuse to sign them any longer.
A ridicule that can be protested,
a hatred that can hate back and be fought in court of law.
A movement and a fight with allies and community members,
while I am told I do not exist.
You fight your battles while I am told mine aren't real:
I found myself at fourteen pleading with my own heart to please just
make up my own mind.
FIghting wars on hate I would gladly replace,
with waging against myself for an identity that doesn't seem to exist.
A void where I am neither hero nor villain because no one will write me into their stories.
You may be a villain, but at least your voice is heard.
You may be a villain, but at least someone has told you
you have a place in this world.
You have a reason to be proud.