(Sorry, I know it says poem, but mine is kind of more of a short story.)

“I love Pride.

Pride is beautiful, Pride is freedom, Pride is joy.

Pride is loud and bright and open and whole.

It’s acceptance and safety and such raw belonging.

Belonging to a community,

to a life.

The closet is a shield that I adore and respect for all that it has done for my own well being, but there are times that I want to screw protection and just be. The exhilaration of knowing that I am seen for how I am, and no one can take that away.

Pride is human.

It is our right to exist,

and we will do so on our own terms.

Pride is a longing for something that you can’t have just yet.

Just a few more years.

Just a year.

But we can enjoy it now, whether we’re out and proud or not. Whether we’re not quite comfortable or safe enough, but still grin like an idiot when we see a flag.

Pride is us.

And I freaking love it.”

The diary entry was supposed to be something beautiful, but I found it slowly shifted into passionate ranting. Maybe because I didn’t have anyone to rant to other than myself. What would happen if anyone found out? I shouldn’t care who finds out. Am I wrong for caring so much about stupid people’s opinions?

Honestly, I had to be so spineless to keep sucking up and pretending that I didn’t full well know I chose to spend time with someone who would never support me. Not even a family member where I could muster an excuse about how at this point I had no choice but to associate with them. No. Someone who I used to think of as a friend. Who still thinks of me as one.

I shouldn’t care. I didn’t want to care anymore. I wanted a choice, and maybe at one point I had one, but it’s too late now. Why was I always too late?

I capped my pen, obstructing my brain’s incessant spiraling. Carefully, I tore out the page and creased it twice. I tucked it into my shirt pocket, making sure it wasn’t sticking out. I slid the black ring off of my middle finger and hid it in my drawer.

Not right now.

Not yet.

But soon.