I saw her standing

at the end of the hall,

pencil in hand,

forever beautiful.

All emotions came

racing back to me

in a whirlwind of emotion.

The last time I saw her was before winter break

when she had bewitched me with her curls.

But this time

her brown hair was straight.

It’s the smallest of changes

that I really adore.

Every time I close my eyes,

I see

her.

I pass a room

and hear her voice,

deep and tired.

I start to shake

as thoughts come racing to my head.

She’ll never accept you.

Shell never accept you.

All I want is to be accepted.

To hold a girl’s hand in public

without feeling like a target,

without feeling eyes watching me

wherever I go, ready to pounce

at any second.

To have openly queer characters

in all my favorite books,

to have the world see me for me,

not as some “cheater” or “partner stealer”

out to take everyone’s significant others away from them.

The world would be a safer place for everyone

if we all accepted each other.

I saw her standing there

at the end of the hall.

Would she accept me?

I don’t think I’ll ever know.

With the way she acts,

all smiley and happy

but avoidant of serious questions.

I don’t think I’ll ever know.

I’m a young aspiring writer trying to figure out life. (She/her)