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.
She’ll 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.
