I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for never

receiving anything more than

a participation ribbon in

gymnastics

and always

shiny bronze, silver, gold

medals in stupid things

like drama and speech.

My speech is hindered sometimes.

Not by you or any other person,

or at least that's what I tell myself,

but by me.

By me and my goddam conscience.

And I'm sorry.

I am sorry but

me and my conscience

are fighting today.

Leave a message at the tone.

My tone changes.

My fluctuation,

my intonation,

my pronunciation,

my word choice

all differs

with the person who stands before me.

Sometimes I sound like a man.

A lumberjack

swinging an axe towards a dead

tree littered with injustice.

After I'm done it will be

a stump remembered only for pride.

Other times I sound like the

feminine, soft-spoken woman my grandmother

prays I will someday become.

And I'm sorry.

I am sorry, Grammy.

I don't know where she went

but she told me,

so sweetly,

whispered in my ear,

tears forming in her dead eyes

that she'd soon be back.

My back hurts.

I don't know why.

I don't do much

anymore.

I don't dance like I used to.

Maybe it's the lack of grace

and movement that is making

it ache but I hope

it will end some day

soon.

My mother says

I need to get out more.

Do more.

See more.

Live more.

Be alive more.

Talk about my feelings more,

but I don't wear my heart like

a badge on a girl scout.

And I'm sorry.

I am sorry that the me

standing in front of the

woman that chose the accident

instead of the tattered memory

she would only recall

on the birthday of the

deadly deed is not

the one she signed up

for.

My fourth birthday cake

was a representation of a farm.

Little People farm animals

scattered across chocolate sheet cake,

cows eating from frosting grass,

red tractors hoisting

candle fence posts

into position.

I was so happy.

It was so gorgeous

my young

eyes watered until

I became fluid.

They filled to the brim

with salty love for the

cake I knew would make my

grandfather proud of me.

And I'm sorry.

I am sorry, Grandpa.

I swear your daughter

didn't realize that the boy

cake you smiled so widely

over,

a smile that makes me feel

loved when I look back

at old photographs,

would make your

granddaughter gay.

My gay

does not make you

any less straight.

If it does maybe

you've been lying to yourself

all along

because trust me

I am not that powerful.

I know it seems like I'm lying

and maybe you're right.

Maybe we are all out to get you.

Maybe Harvey Milk created

a secret,

homosexual,

underground society

dedicated to ending all of our

child-bearing counterparts.

Maybe we have a secret

military base hidden underneath

the earth that hides all of our

rainbow-painted

nukes and bazookas

we will use to destroy your

heterosexual agenda.

And I'm sorry.

I am sorry

we can never prove that

this is false,

even though many people

will tell you that it indeed is.

I am sorry that my presence

makes you uncomfortable.

Uncle Dean, I am sorry

your wife feels like I

have lied to the family.

But guess what.

My family,

my true family,

doesn't give a s***

about who I was born to love.

And I'm sorry.

I am sorry you are

too selfish to

see past your faith

for once

and just

believe

in

me.