When I first came out

I did not cry.

I didn't know

a closet door could open

and have no one

gasp in horror at

the monsters living inside.

I did not cry

when I told

my mother she had a

lesbian daughter.

I didn't know

every time

she rewound my words

in her skull

she would cry

all on her own.

I did not cry

when I yelled

at the girl with the

bubble gum chapstick,

“I'M GAY, DANI!”.

I didn't know

she didn't actually know.

I didn't realize

anyone could be so blind.

I did not cry

when my crush asked me if

I was gay.

I didn't know

each time I said the word,

“Yes,”

pens would not drop.

The world would not stop.

It would be ignored.

Life would go on.

I did not cry

when I told myself

I was gay.

I didn't know

what shock was

until that moment,

how lonely felt

until I decided to

open the doors of

my own reality.

I did not cry.

I cried

when he

came out to me.

We had all known.

He had the mannerisms,

the speech,

his only friends were bubbly girls,

he had an ego the size of his self-doubt.

We didn't know

how much a stereotype could

break down a person

until they thought

nothing of themselves but

the mold they

were forced into.

When he came out

I said,

“I am so proud of you.”

I didn't say

I felt his heartbreak,

that I knew

what it was

to march down a hallway

with shackles

crushing your ankles together,

that I too fell in love

with rain on the off-chance

I saw a rainbow.

I cried.

I didn't know

what empathy was

until that moment.

What pride felt like

when another was

alongside you.

I cried.

I knew for every ten

there was one

alone in a crowd.

I knew children

were crying because

their own parents

would cry

if they knew.

I cried.

I knew he

felt every tear I didn't

produce

and I know

he will not feel

at home in his own soul

until he learns it

is okay to be in love

with rain as long

as he remembers

with each downpour

a rainbow is growing

between the clouds.