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I cried in the bathroom at church before I knew it was a stereotype
I fell in love before I knew that I was an abomination.
I lived and breathed before I knew that every breath I made was shallow.
Shallow as I gasped for air in the pool of sins I would commit just to love.
You told me I was no worse than a murderer.
You asked if I wanted to go to foster care.
You said I made you want to kill yourself.
You told me to keep it a secret.
So I did until eventually, I couldn’t breathe.
I’m sorry that I didn't breathe deep enough for you to think I was worth life.
I am sorry that their words translated into wounds on my wrists.
But as far as you know it’s because I didn’t get an A.
That I lost control
That it was God’s living punishment for me being gay.
I will breathe deeper next time.
But I just have to ask.
If you loved me,
Why do you only quote the verses that condemn me?
If you wanted me to change
Why did you tell me I made you proud?
I was torn between choosing to love and choosing to die.
You are right.
Gay people are dirty.
Dirty because we spend Sundays in the bathroom.
Dirty because we are bloodstained from your words
Dirty from the dirt you throw at us every day
For being proud of a sin we want to commit.
I am dirty.
But that never used to matter to you.
You loved me when cake was smashed on my face on my first birthday.
Why is it different now that the frosting is rainbow?
You say I breathe too shallow,
But it’s only because I live with an oxygen mask on my back and I am about to run out of air.
I am gay.
I am dirty.
I used to be yours.
I am not a perfect Christian.
I am not a geometric cookie cutter,
But an uneven Mickey Mouse pancake.
And I know how to breathe.
It was you that took away my oxygen.