In this collection of poetry, queer students describe their experiences with identity and sexuality as they navigate school. Although these poems touch painful stories, they still share a common theme: queer resistance.
Who I Am
Do I really like you?
Do I really feel like me?
Is this really me, the woman I was told I am, the woman you said I would be?
Is this truly what it means to be built this way?
Well what if I don’t want to be the woman you said I’d be
What if I wanted to be someone else to the world?
Who said you get a say?
Who said *you* got to define me at 6 years old?
Who decided you’d look at me and see a godawful woman looking right back up at you?!
So I say fuck you!
Screw you!
I don’t wanna be defined by you!
I don’t want the life you chose for me!
I don’t wanna be in a world where you control me, pester me, make me wanna be anyone but me
I don’t wanna be defined by you!
I don’t want to be what you see,
I want to be me!
I want to be what *i* see
I want to be the person you hate so much
I want to be the the piece of shit you scoff at
I want to be the brave child you never saw coming
I want to be the person who stands up for who they are
I want to be me!
So that’s exactly who I’m going to be
- Rein VanHarn
Colors of a fallen soldier
(written in the Unisex bathroom of my high school)
I am red with yellow blood, purple painted on my body, exterior paint that happened to not sink into my veins, but instead I am red, and I see it in the mirror, the blood that erupts from my arms blends with my being, mixing a new color in my reflection making the picture complete, a shade of orange stands before me with speckles of red and yellow splattered all over me, making me some sort of rainbow, bringing me back to the mirror, a man filled to the brim with prosperity hovering over my weak female body, holding his hand out to me as if he was asking me to join him, to be him. His touch burns the purple away, left with my colors, the colors of a fallen soldier
- Gamzee Monroe
(written in the Unisex bathroom of my high school)
I am red with yellow blood, purple painted on my body, exterior paint that happened to not sink into my veins, but instead I am red, and I see it in the mirror, the blood that erupts from my arms blends with my being, mixing a new color in my reflection making the picture complete, a shade of orange stands before me with speckles of red and yellow splattered all over me, making me some sort of rainbow, bringing me back to the mirror, a man filled to the brim with prosperity hovering over my weak female body, holding his hand out to me as if he was asking me to join him, to be him. His touch burns the purple away, left with my colors, the colors of a fallen soldier
- Gamzee Monroe
Surrounding your Senses
TW: self-harm, suicide
Homophobia doesn't just sound like: “I hate the gays” or “That’s disgusting.” It’s the sound of scoffs when two women kiss on television. It’s the sound of laughter coming from your classmates when someone labels yet another inanimate object or subject gay becasue to them its synonomus with the lesser. It’s the lack of sound when you're begging your parents to say something, ANYTHING after you let the words you've been rehearsing in your head over and over for god knows how long spill out through your trembling lips. It’s the sound of the front door slamming shut after you've packed your things because your parents finally did say something.
Homophobia doesn't just feel “bad”. It’s the feeling of settling for being touched by someone you dont truly love, because you hate on yourself just as much as everyone else for being queer. It’s the feeling of hot coals getting lodged in your throat when youre trying to explain that just because youre lesbian doesnt mean youre trying to sleep with your best friend. It’s the feeling of shame when another comment pops up on your feed asking if you want to have a threesome just because you're bi. It feels like a punch to the gut when you hear an “S” in front of the “H-E” when your parents are talking about your brother.
Homophobia smells like rotting flesh; you see you can smell as your body and soul are being killed and eaten alive by the guilt and shame you've been taught to feel your whole life.
Homophobia doesn't just look like kids getting shoved into lockers or people shoving prayers and bible verses into your hands in hopes you repent. No, it looks like those sideways glances you get when you FINALLY find clothes you feel comfortable wearing or that haircut that just feels right. It looks like the hate comments saying “I bet I could set him straight”. It looks like rolling eyes when you correct someone on your friend’s proper pronouns because they (yes THEY, not he) don't have the energy to try to correct people anymore.
Homophobia has taste too. It tastes of the salty tears rolling down your face as you're beginning to get those intrusive thoughts in your head once more. First they're of longing for someone you know you shouldn't love. Then they become dangerous as you remember those hateful things your family said. It tastes like the fourth glass of rum and coke you stole from the liquor cabinet at 4 am after a long night of drinking and writing out a letter. It’s the taste of blood from your wrists after turning to cutting rather than offing yourself like those people told you to do.
But at the end of the day you must decide to keep pushing on because homophobia heightens these senses, it makes you stronger. You're going to keep hearing and feeling and smelling and seeing and tasting because you are never alone, you are enough, and life is worth living.
- Emily Treger
TW: self-harm, suicide
Homophobia doesn't just sound like: “I hate the gays” or “That’s disgusting.” It’s the sound of scoffs when two women kiss on television. It’s the sound of laughter coming from your classmates when someone labels yet another inanimate object or subject gay becasue to them its synonomus with the lesser. It’s the lack of sound when you're begging your parents to say something, ANYTHING after you let the words you've been rehearsing in your head over and over for god knows how long spill out through your trembling lips. It’s the sound of the front door slamming shut after you've packed your things because your parents finally did say something.
Homophobia doesn't just feel “bad”. It’s the feeling of settling for being touched by someone you dont truly love, because you hate on yourself just as much as everyone else for being queer. It’s the feeling of hot coals getting lodged in your throat when youre trying to explain that just because youre lesbian doesnt mean youre trying to sleep with your best friend. It’s the feeling of shame when another comment pops up on your feed asking if you want to have a threesome just because you're bi. It feels like a punch to the gut when you hear an “S” in front of the “H-E” when your parents are talking about your brother.
Homophobia smells like rotting flesh; you see you can smell as your body and soul are being killed and eaten alive by the guilt and shame you've been taught to feel your whole life.
Homophobia doesn't just look like kids getting shoved into lockers or people shoving prayers and bible verses into your hands in hopes you repent. No, it looks like those sideways glances you get when you FINALLY find clothes you feel comfortable wearing or that haircut that just feels right. It looks like the hate comments saying “I bet I could set him straight”. It looks like rolling eyes when you correct someone on your friend’s proper pronouns because they (yes THEY, not he) don't have the energy to try to correct people anymore.
Homophobia has taste too. It tastes of the salty tears rolling down your face as you're beginning to get those intrusive thoughts in your head once more. First they're of longing for someone you know you shouldn't love. Then they become dangerous as you remember those hateful things your family said. It tastes like the fourth glass of rum and coke you stole from the liquor cabinet at 4 am after a long night of drinking and writing out a letter. It’s the taste of blood from your wrists after turning to cutting rather than offing yourself like those people told you to do.
But at the end of the day you must decide to keep pushing on because homophobia heightens these senses, it makes you stronger. You're going to keep hearing and feeling and smelling and seeing and tasting because you are never alone, you are enough, and life is worth living.
- Emily Treger
Normal
why is straight always the norm?
the ways that we grow up assuming
that loving the opposite gender
is just how life goes
we’re never exposed to new ideas
we’re told to stay in a box and assume
that we are to be told who to love
and when we finally break the chains
and discover that our parents never
taught us about love, we’re shunned,
banned, hated, and killed for it.
for years my story revolved around
“when will you get a boyfriend?” or
“who’s the lucky man?”
what if it’s not that. maybe? no. but I-
but. I always had to stop myself and listen to
what other people told me to be.
guess what bitches
I’m bi
And you can’t tell me I’m not.
- Kylee Lary
why is straight always the norm?
the ways that we grow up assuming
that loving the opposite gender
is just how life goes
we’re never exposed to new ideas
we’re told to stay in a box and assume
that we are to be told who to love
and when we finally break the chains
and discover that our parents never
taught us about love, we’re shunned,
banned, hated, and killed for it.
for years my story revolved around
“when will you get a boyfriend?” or
“who’s the lucky man?”
what if it’s not that. maybe? no. but I-
but. I always had to stop myself and listen to
what other people told me to be.
guess what bitches
I’m bi
And you can’t tell me I’m not.
- Kylee Lary
“gay relationships are still criminalised in 72 countries,” & next up on the news...
teacher, teacher, i have
a question: why am i
breaking the law
now that i am finally feeling?
i mean no harm, just wish
to kiss a certain human heart. you
are all like oversized, awkward frogs
to me; why should
i not want something
a little more feminine?
tell me, teacher, what am i
doing wrong? the taste on my lips is desire,
not sin. my and her
backs and upper thighs are now raw
from discovery. oh, imagine
living where love
does not = pain.
teacher, how do i decide?—do i have
my life finished
in a short, bright flash, or live
for a hundred years but never once
be born from her womb?
- Claire Robinson
teacher, teacher, i have
a question: why am i
breaking the law
now that i am finally feeling?
i mean no harm, just wish
to kiss a certain human heart. you
are all like oversized, awkward frogs
to me; why should
i not want something
a little more feminine?
tell me, teacher, what am i
doing wrong? the taste on my lips is desire,
not sin. my and her
backs and upper thighs are now raw
from discovery. oh, imagine
living where love
does not = pain.
teacher, how do i decide?—do i have
my life finished
in a short, bright flash, or live
for a hundred years but never once
be born from her womb?
- Claire Robinson
Favorite Color
blue.
pink.
why never red?
or purple,
or yellow,
or something else instead?
“You’re a girl!” they’d say.
Isn’t pink what you like?
I’d question myself and wonder
Was I broken inside?
Did my brain not work?
Are my eyes shut tight?
So I’d agree, sure! Pink!
It’s the color I like.
It felt wrong.
It felt like a mask.
It wasn’t something I believed in...
But I wore it without another ask...ing
Of a question or ponder or judgement in sight.
They’d told me forever that pink was my type.
My like.
My kind.
I felt trapped by the pink.
I didn’t want it inside.
It wasn’t my favorite color.
And I used it to hide.
Instead of a hue so dipped in tradition
I craved the kind that went against those inhibitions.
I wanted to scream
WHAT IF I LIKE GREEN?
OR YELLOW?
WHAT IF MY FAVORITE KIND ISN’T LIKE HERS.
What if my favorite kind ... IS hers?
Does that make me broken?
Does that make me lesser than?
Why are we assigned colors before we know
What a color could even begin to show?
How do I know
What my true colors are?
If they’re given to me by someone
So far
So far Away from my own heart?
There are so many colors to pick from.
It feels like a game.
A trick passage!
A piece of blame.
But, once you notice that those colors are a key to your world...
Picking green or purple or gold or whatever
Feels like the kind of thing you’ve been searching for this whole time, little girl.
- Hannah Barosko
blue.
pink.
why never red?
or purple,
or yellow,
or something else instead?
“You’re a girl!” they’d say.
Isn’t pink what you like?
I’d question myself and wonder
Was I broken inside?
Did my brain not work?
Are my eyes shut tight?
So I’d agree, sure! Pink!
It’s the color I like.
It felt wrong.
It felt like a mask.
It wasn’t something I believed in...
But I wore it without another ask...ing
Of a question or ponder or judgement in sight.
They’d told me forever that pink was my type.
My like.
My kind.
I felt trapped by the pink.
I didn’t want it inside.
It wasn’t my favorite color.
And I used it to hide.
Instead of a hue so dipped in tradition
I craved the kind that went against those inhibitions.
I wanted to scream
WHAT IF I LIKE GREEN?
OR YELLOW?
WHAT IF MY FAVORITE KIND ISN’T LIKE HERS.
What if my favorite kind ... IS hers?
Does that make me broken?
Does that make me lesser than?
Why are we assigned colors before we know
What a color could even begin to show?
How do I know
What my true colors are?
If they’re given to me by someone
So far
So far Away from my own heart?
There are so many colors to pick from.
It feels like a game.
A trick passage!
A piece of blame.
But, once you notice that those colors are a key to your world...
Picking green or purple or gold or whatever
Feels like the kind of thing you’ve been searching for this whole time, little girl.
- Hannah Barosko
Speak
let me say that I love who you are and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say that I am in pain and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say that I would do anything for this, to be loved to feel safe to be safe with who I love and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say I am scared to death and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and let there be a beautiful silence after. I want my words to have so much meaning that they are beautiful and terrible at the same time. I want every word I say to always mean more than you think, except I want you to think about it.
I want you to know that my words are being pulled directly from my heart in black soupy mess. they are imprinted in my brain in a roaring fire forever searing staying there. they are not just lines on a screen. I will dive in the swirling ocean of your thoughts and drown in the depths waiting for my words to take root in your mind's heart.
Breathe, think, reread this. these are not throwaway words. these are the words of a girl lost in the reality of the world forced to care about who she cares about and desperately trying to escape into a dream's design, drifting further away as we speak, as I speak until my voice is taken away.
I will speak until I have nothing to say.
- Astrid Code
let me say that I love who you are and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say that I am in pain and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say that I would do anything for this, to be loved to feel safe to be safe with who I love and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say I am scared to death and let there be a beautiful silence after. let me say you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and let there be a beautiful silence after. I want my words to have so much meaning that they are beautiful and terrible at the same time. I want every word I say to always mean more than you think, except I want you to think about it.
I want you to know that my words are being pulled directly from my heart in black soupy mess. they are imprinted in my brain in a roaring fire forever searing staying there. they are not just lines on a screen. I will dive in the swirling ocean of your thoughts and drown in the depths waiting for my words to take root in your mind's heart.
Breathe, think, reread this. these are not throwaway words. these are the words of a girl lost in the reality of the world forced to care about who she cares about and desperately trying to escape into a dream's design, drifting further away as we speak, as I speak until my voice is taken away.
I will speak until I have nothing to say.
- Astrid Code
Journal Entry
...Only when I gather enough force to push you to the back of my mind I realize what I had done. I had fallen for you. A girl. I had fallen for a girl. And I'm tired. I never asked for this. The realization of my love for you had effectively condemned me to hardships I don't have the bandwidth to undertake. I never asked to fake my attraction to other boys in our class. I had never asked to be harboring this secret. The secret that has the ability to end so many relationships. And I had never asked for the immense feeling of guilt. Guilt for not being strong enough to be who I am. Guilt for keeping this part of me a secret. I guess I'm scared to tell them. I'm scared to be vulnerable. To put myself out there, wherever there is. I know people may already accept or even assume it. But something is holding me back. Maybe it’s the comments I heard my mother say as a child. Maybe it kills me to think this will cause her to believe that she failed as a parent. Maybe it's the small town mentality and the whispered gossips that travel so far. Maybe it's the thought of being judged. Whichever, I'm stuck. Closet door cracked open, with only enough light for me to see. I just can't muster the energy to push the door open completely and breach the threshold.
- Rayenna Sutton
...Only when I gather enough force to push you to the back of my mind I realize what I had done. I had fallen for you. A girl. I had fallen for a girl. And I'm tired. I never asked for this. The realization of my love for you had effectively condemned me to hardships I don't have the bandwidth to undertake. I never asked to fake my attraction to other boys in our class. I had never asked to be harboring this secret. The secret that has the ability to end so many relationships. And I had never asked for the immense feeling of guilt. Guilt for not being strong enough to be who I am. Guilt for keeping this part of me a secret. I guess I'm scared to tell them. I'm scared to be vulnerable. To put myself out there, wherever there is. I know people may already accept or even assume it. But something is holding me back. Maybe it’s the comments I heard my mother say as a child. Maybe it kills me to think this will cause her to believe that she failed as a parent. Maybe it's the small town mentality and the whispered gossips that travel so far. Maybe it's the thought of being judged. Whichever, I'm stuck. Closet door cracked open, with only enough light for me to see. I just can't muster the energy to push the door open completely and breach the threshold.
- Rayenna Sutton
At 4pm in a Women’s Restroom
(written at school)
Sometimes I look at the people in the women's restroom,
and I notice how many of them are smaller than me,
thinner than me,
shorter than me.
Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, in the women's restroom,
and I wonder how it is possible
that I have ever been compared to them.
They are everything I am not.
I am overweight, tall, masculine.
What miracle of genetics must have happened to make me this way
and yet I am still compared,
every day,
to them?
Sometimes, when I am in the women's restroom,
all I can think about is who they think I am.
Who she was,
and why they cannot simply accept that she is gone.
- Endymion Henry
(written at school)
Sometimes I look at the people in the women's restroom,
and I notice how many of them are smaller than me,
thinner than me,
shorter than me.
Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, in the women's restroom,
and I wonder how it is possible
that I have ever been compared to them.
They are everything I am not.
I am overweight, tall, masculine.
What miracle of genetics must have happened to make me this way
and yet I am still compared,
every day,
to them?
Sometimes, when I am in the women's restroom,
all I can think about is who they think I am.
Who she was,
and why they cannot simply accept that she is gone.
- Endymion Henry
To Those Who Hate
I have heard it all before.
And I will try to be polite,
But where do I draw the line?
You want to ask some questions, sure.
You want to know what I am?
You want to know my real name?
You want a chance to convince me that you know that I’m a girl, you just know it, Because I couldn’t possibly know myself better than you do.
You claim to be all about the science,
But apparently only that basic lesson you recalled from your high school biology class specifically for this occasion-
So that you could remind me that it takes an X and a Y to make a baby boy.
Conveniently, you turn your head when National Geographic offers the scientific explanation you’ve been so adamantly demanding.
Conveniently, you get bored and change the channel when Bill Nye pulls out his diagram of the spectrums of gender, sexuality, and expression.
The truth is plain: you only care about the science when it’s convenient for you.
And what about the Bible?
I couldn’t forget that one,
Always following me down church corridors,
Down the streets of this conservative little town.
You’re looking me in the eye,
And telling me that your god, the one who freed the slaves, Who healed the sick,
Who promised to love the whole world,
That’s the same guy who will, when time comes,
Spit in my face at the gates of heaven?
I could’ve sworn we were talking about the same Jesus, But maybe yours is different than mine.
You really don’t need to remind me
That I will be hated by someone wherever I go.
If that was news to me, we’d both be living in a different world. You really don’t need to remind me, because when I first came out, My mother was really scared.
I am one of the lucky ones.
I have not been threatened,
Or followed,
Or beaten, or hunted down, or cornered,
Or killed.
You can claim that your opinion is a harmless one, But the statistics simply don’t agree with you.
You can shout at me from behind my back, Make gestures when I parade past you,
But know that I will always be doing just that: Parading past you.
And at the end of the day,
My right to exist does not end Where your discomfort begins.
- Ashton Cove
I have heard it all before.
And I will try to be polite,
But where do I draw the line?
You want to ask some questions, sure.
You want to know what I am?
You want to know my real name?
You want a chance to convince me that you know that I’m a girl, you just know it, Because I couldn’t possibly know myself better than you do.
You claim to be all about the science,
But apparently only that basic lesson you recalled from your high school biology class specifically for this occasion-
So that you could remind me that it takes an X and a Y to make a baby boy.
Conveniently, you turn your head when National Geographic offers the scientific explanation you’ve been so adamantly demanding.
Conveniently, you get bored and change the channel when Bill Nye pulls out his diagram of the spectrums of gender, sexuality, and expression.
The truth is plain: you only care about the science when it’s convenient for you.
And what about the Bible?
I couldn’t forget that one,
Always following me down church corridors,
Down the streets of this conservative little town.
You’re looking me in the eye,
And telling me that your god, the one who freed the slaves, Who healed the sick,
Who promised to love the whole world,
That’s the same guy who will, when time comes,
Spit in my face at the gates of heaven?
I could’ve sworn we were talking about the same Jesus, But maybe yours is different than mine.
You really don’t need to remind me
That I will be hated by someone wherever I go.
If that was news to me, we’d both be living in a different world. You really don’t need to remind me, because when I first came out, My mother was really scared.
I am one of the lucky ones.
I have not been threatened,
Or followed,
Or beaten, or hunted down, or cornered,
Or killed.
You can claim that your opinion is a harmless one, But the statistics simply don’t agree with you.
You can shout at me from behind my back, Make gestures when I parade past you,
But know that I will always be doing just that: Parading past you.
And at the end of the day,
My right to exist does not end Where your discomfort begins.
- Ashton Cove