and it says that she is afraid of being herself
and you ask why
and she says it’s personal “like, really personal”
and you say if she wants to tell you, that you would love to know
and she asks why
and you say you care
and she asks why
(because kids are really good at that)
and you say you love her
so then she comes out
(of nowhere)
and comes out
in poetry class
and you realize you might be the first person she ever told
and however you react next
might set her self-image in cement
like maybe it wont but
what if it does and
you’re not even out at work yet yourself,
(you phony.)
and maybe you would’ve been out way sooner and
maybe you wouldn’t have told everyone in your own high school
“like, ew duh no I’m not” if you had met yourself now,
then.
and you think all of this in the four seconds it takes you to read her four sentences and you don’t want to stall
and you don’t want to stutter
and you want to be as real as you can be,
but exactly how real are you even allowed to be
here?
so you look at her sentences,
at her closet door opened, just for you,
and you point and say,
“And you really thought I wouldn’t understand?”
which is honest but vague enough to be professional
by which I mean coward enough to be self-protecting
and you watch her heavy become at least one shade lighter
and you both laugh, together
over something the rest of the room doesn’t even notice.
& 