When I tell you that I’m
Asexual,
that doesn’t give you permission
to snidely comment on how
this generation has fallen into a
rut of depending on labels
to find their place in society.
My sexual identity is a title
for my own comfort,
my own personal solace,
my own sake.
I depend on it to
help me find who I am,
not how I fit in.

When I tell you that I’m
Asexual,
it only gives you consent
to commend my bravery
because coming out is something
not everyone can do.
If I tell you my sexuality,
it means that I trust you.
You should feel honored
because even the thought
of someone reacting badly
keeps me from having that
very serious conversation.

When I tell you that I’m
Asexual,
you should keep in mind how
nervous I am.
Notice how my hands shake,
how my eyes dart around.
I can’t look at you because
I can’t handle how you’ll react.
Remember that this could be either
the best or worst decision
I could make, and remember that
how you react will dictate
the rest of our relationship.

When I tell you that I’m
Asexual,
it should be a monumental experience
for the both of us.
It means that I trust you,
I believe that you won’t make fun of me;
standing strong, you become
the rock that tethers me
to the ground while I try to find
who I am relative to the universe.