I feel a little sorry for people who never had
to come out,
who never needed to hold
a central fact of their very being as
a blood-oath between their future
and their past,
who never got to
learn the myriad twitchy codes that
taught one to discern who among them
was safe.

Those who never had the chance
to navigate the waters where family
got smaller,
and thus,
never entered the land with just one
law — you get to build your own.

Even as I write this, I hear
the plaintive wails of straight women,
“Oh, I know the codes, sugar” and cishet
men, “I got kicked out of the house at
18; all I know is a chosen family.”

And so I ask to them and you alike:
Have you come out?
Thrown off the mantle of the mask and
announced your authenticity to some you
fear you’ll lose?
Have you
put everything on the line in exchange for
answering the plea of your heart to live
honestly? To show up
openly? To be free?

I hope so that for you,
whoever you are stumbling
on these lines.

I hope so, that, for you.

For I feel sorry for the people
who never get to come out.