“You look really gay” — achievement unlocked.

My short hair, worn out hoody and loose trousers

Seem to have secured my identity in the outside world.

“You look gay” — I’m breathing in your words like

My inside is in line with my outward expression.

“I’m not straight, agreed, …” — I say, breathing out the last of

What’s left of my conscience. “… but bear with me, when I say

I never tried to look like my sexuality.”

When I put on my boy-section over-sized hoody

I am not gay. I am depressed. I comfort myself

By wearing things that don’t stick to my body,

The way my negative thoughts stick with me through life.

I wear a flannel, not because I am gay, but because

The pile of laundry from a month ago refuses to wash itself.

I do not look gay, when I drag my legs across the pavement

In my old Uggs, but at least my feet are warmer

Than my attitude towards life at this exact point in time.

Gay. Oh how I wish the word still implied happiness.

Gay. I laugh when you say it, thinking that by saying it

You show your acceptance towards me, and I love it to an extent.

The past month I’d look at myself in the mirror thinking

“Damn, girl, you look like a dyke.”

But my hair was once long and beautiful, until

Multiple break-downs in my search for identity

Had destroyed it with chemicals, when the chemicals

I was actually missing couldn’t be contained in the

Box of hair dye. Oh serotonin, how I needed you,

Where did you go and how do I get you back?

Same question I ask my ex-lovers.