Tag Archives: gay

raspberries are red

It wasn’t a perfect day for weather — but it was a perfect day for Berlin.

 

Although, the rain did prove to threaten my plans for the day, you still wanted to meet.

 

I waited for you outside of our apartment building. Warschauer Strasse. One of the main hubs of Berlin, always bustling with busy bodies and enthusiastic drug induced tourists. The energy of the day was especially electric due to the kultural festival — an entire weekend filled with foods from all over the world and multiple music stages displaying local bands galore. I had been the previous night with friends, and ended up eating my life worth in Argentinian empanadas and pad thai.

 

My friends told me not to take you there, at least not to start off with. It was too loud for a first date — too chaotic. But I disagreed, I liked the noise, I liked the colors, the distractions from awkward conversation.

 

However, I took their advice. Instead, I suggested we started out with a photography exhibition from one of my favorite photographers, Mario Testino. I had already seen an installation of his in both Madrid and NYC.

 

So around 15:15 you finally met me outside. You were late, and I had counted on it. I was on time, and I’m never on time unless I’m nervous. But I needed the time to calm my nerves. Truthfully, I don’t know why I was wound up about it. I had spent time with you before, but in groups, and our flirtatious conversation and affectionate ambiguity had been taken lightly. I never let myself take romance too seriously. I don’t know if that’s because of my own insecurity or because I’m as laid back as I claim. Maybe, a mixture.

 

You looked nice though. You were in color — green and pink specifically. Mentally, I noted your favorite colors. I liked this about you, the vibrancy.

 

You smiled and we greeted, and then we were on our way.

 

The metro ride was particular. I couldn’t look at you, or else I would have just kept smiling like an idiot. So I never kept eye-contact with you for longer than normal. Plus, my uncomfortable habit of looking at someone in the eyes too long — I didn’t want to make things awkward within the first 10 minutes.

It took us about 30 minutes to get to the other side of Berlin, to the museum that hosted the exhibition. Turns out, the museum had the wrong address on their website and the installation was actually in a sister building about another 20 minutes away. However, by the time we would have gotten there, we wouldn’t have had enough time to see it properly.

 

“We’re going to laugh about this later in the future,” I noted, a bit disappointed.

 

“Why later? It’s funny now,” you answered back, with your dimpled smile.

 

So instead, we decided on having a drink, at a Mexican restaurant called Que Pasa.

 

Was I tempted to have a real drink, and by real, I mean alcoholic? Yes, absolutely. Especially since it was already 5pm. But I didn’t.

 

My desire to want to spend time with you sober superseded it. The times we had hung out together with our group of classmates had always somehow involved ending up drunk, and us walking home together. I’d walk you to courtyard between the both of our buildings just talking and star-gazing. Well, what little star-gazing you can do in a city of clouds — undoubtedly drunk. You even invited me into your apartment once, but I didn’t make a move. I didn’t want to and I also didn’t know what was going on. I just wanted to enjoy whatever was happening without moving too fast.

 

So I chose a Sprite instead.

 

You drank a hot chocolate.

 

And we talked about family and aspirations and school for a few hours over a loaded plate of nachos.

 

You told me you were a vegetarian for a few years of your life. So I found it ironic when you chose chicken to coat the chips. Well, we all have our guilty pleasures, I suppose.

 

Afterwards, I asked if you wanted to go to the festival and check it out. What I meant was — do you want to try all the food stalls with me and dance around and be fools together?

 

You aren’t originally from Berlin, but have lived here for a good four or so years, minus your year abroad in Korea. But you had never been to the festival. It’d be your first time too, and I was happy to experience this with you.

 

We walked around for an hour or so, before you decided on what you wanted to eat. A delicacy from Hungary — I can’t quite remember the name, but it’s their version of a pizza coated with garlic, a white yogurt sauce, and cheese — again, you also added meat: salami, this time. Said it reminded you of your father.

 

“You’re going to have to deal with me eating a lot of garlic… hope you don’t mind.”

 

I found the comment odd, but I didn’t mention it. Just said I wanted to try it how it’s meant to be eaten.

 

So we sat at the picnic tables put out beside the food stand, which was also placed right beside one of the many musical stages of the festival. It was a German group playing songs in many different languages. French, English, German.

 

We stayed watching them for 20 minutes or so, while you ate. We hardly spoke at all. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it’s one of my favorite things to find in a person. when you can shut the fuck up with them and still have fun.

 

Once you finished, we got up to leave. I walked ahead of you into the crowd, while the band continued overhead playing a song. I didn’t understand the lyrics, but I figured it must be German since I couldn’t catch any French.

 

Then I felt your hand on my shoulder and I turned around to look at you.

 

“Kiss me now, and I will be in paradise in Heaven.”

 

I am sure the look on my face betrayed me. I’m not that great of a liar. So after a few seconds of looking into each other’s eyes, I blurted out, “What?”

 

“It’s the lyric they just sang,” you said, as you smiled casually and then led me out of the crowd.

 

I closed my eyes and followed you, wondering if that was what the song had really said — wondering if I had missed my chance.

 

But let’s be real. I didn’t know if we were on a date or not, honestly.

 

A few days earlier, we had gone on a picnic with my group of friends. I had invited you, and you accepted. There was lots of food and lots of alcohol — two of my favorite things. So naturally, we got very inebriated.

 

Afterwards, we walked from the park to my friend’s house to continue our day of fun. While we strolled to theirs, you and I somehow ended up side by side. I can’t quite recall what got us onto the topic but we had both mentioned how we wanted to hangout, but not get super drunk. Since the past few times had all ended very drunk, but that’s what happens in large groups of socialization.

 

“We should make a date out of it.”

I was pretty intoxicated at this moment already, but I remember it. The “date” word. It took me by surprise.

 

“Yeah, okay, we should.” Then I asked when and we were trying to figure it out, but got interrupted by our friends and their intruding conversations.

 

So when we finally decided to meet up, just us two, it was never explicitly stated if this was our date or not. I wasn’t even sure you remembered what you said, or if it was just drunken words, so I didn’t bring it up. I just thought I’d go out with you and figure it out during. If nothing else, I wanted to be your friend at least. 

 

That was a dumb idea — but also very brilliant because it took the pressure off of a label.

 

After eating, we decided to check out the parade. So we followed the crowd into the fray. You put your arm on my shoulder to keep hold of me. I was too nervous to grab your hand. I had told you previously in a different hang out how intimate holding hands was to me, possibly more important than kissing.

 

So I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable — even though we had already held hands in the club, but that was different. I was drunk and friendly then.

 

Now, I was sober and interested — and that’s a deadly combination, for me. Once we got to the street the parade was on, the crowd tightened. So we crossed the street to the other side to be on the less busy part, or so we thought. Once there, we realized how packed it was, too. I let you stand in front to see, and I stood behind you.

 

One of the first floats we saw represented Ghana. The truck had a DJ and many dancers in the back. And there was a massive following of Ghanaians dancing around the truck to afro-beats and their own mix of reggae. This excited the energy in the crowd. People were chanting in solidarity and enjoyment, and dancing around with bottles in hand. You turned to look at me, with the biggest smile.

 

“This is awesome, look at all the colors and dress they’re wearing!”

 

I grinned back at you in response, and for the life of me, I cannot remember how it happened. I know for sure I didn’t exclusively go for your hand.

 

But I know it wasn’t just you either.

 

It just happened.

 

And there we were, in the middle of a huge raging crowd, looking at each other, our fingers intertwined.

 

You turned back around, and I expected you to let go. But you didn’t. Instead you gave my hand a small squeeze, and we stayed that way for a long while, watching the rest of the parade. I couldn’t concentrate much anymore though.

 

All I could feel was the heat between our skin, and how nice it was to hold your hand — but also how confusing.

 

We decided to cross and go back to the festival grounds to get more food — as I hadn’t eaten yet and was getting hungry.

 

There was a knot in my stomach, but it wasn’t from hunger. I realized in this beautiful moment that it was the first time I have ever held hands with another girl openly. Without shame, without secrets, without guilt.

 

I’m 25 and before that Sunday, I had never held hands with another girl so freely. Not with my fling I had before I moved to Spain, and not with my almost 4 year relationship. Not with any of the girls I “dated” in between, either. I hadn’t felt comfortable enough with myself yet.

 

And here I was, holding hands with a beautiful girl. A girl who didn’t make me feel like I needed to hide what I felt.

 

And you know, her and I can turn out to be nothing. We could stop talking today and never speak again — and I will always remember this moment, and how she was and always will be part of a very important experience for me.

 

Maybe this is why holding hands is so intimate for me. Because I’ve never done it before with someone and it felt so… normal.

 

No one gave us weird looks, or ridiculed us, or said anything out of the ordinary.

 

But it was you, too. You didn’t pull back, or make it feel awkward. Just comfortable.

 

I can’t describe it properly, how it made me feel. Just that it felt so normal. It’s the first time in my life, I’ve felt like a girl who likes another girl and that’s normal.

 

I’m sure at the end of the night, I could have tried to kiss you.

 

I didn’t want to though. Why ruin the moment? It was enough for me, to have your hand in mine.

 

A little after midnight, we decided to go to a bar. One of my favorites. Madame Claude. I only had one beer — one. That’s it. At a bar, filled with alcohol. Guess I was enjoying you so much. You intoxicated me.

 

We stayed until about 4:30am, when we decided it was time to go home. Time had escaped me. I couldn’t believe we had spent nearly 14 hours together. I had mentioned it to you at the bar. How I had other plans just in case our hangout was awkward, and you told me the same. You had been out until 4/5am the past few nights and were really tired. And had you not been enjoying yourself, you would have used this as a reason to excuse yourself earlier.

 

We both laughed harder than we meant to, I think. It was good to know I wasn’t the only one nervous.

 

As we walked home, some random drunk guy asked you for sex in German. Said you guys could do it really fast. You scoffed and turned him down. But he kept trying to talk to you. I really didn’t understand anything at the moment, with my limited German skills.

 

But then I felt your hand slip through my arm, and you pulled yourself closer to me. I knew that feeling perfectly, without you having to explain. You felt safe around me, and kept your arm looped in mine. You walked close to me, on the way home. Eventually, dropping your arm to hold my hand instead.

 

“You’re comfortable to be around.” You said, before letting go of my hand so I could open the door for us.

 

We stood at the base of the stairs. Normally, I would walk you to the courtyard between our buildings up to your door to your building. I don’t know why, but I didn’t this time.

 

I just hugged you, and you held on to me for longer than a regular hug.

 

“I know you’re tired, so I’ll let you sleep.”

 

You smirked at me, and said breathlessly between us, “I had a really good time.”

 

“Me too.” I held your gaze for a few silent moments. Even in the dark, your blue eyes were crystal clear.

 

And then I watched you walk away — and I couldn’t help but wonder, if it was a date or not.

 

But I knew, even if it wasn’t, I’d always remember it for more important reasons.

Δlways

Today I have officially been home for a complete year. 365 days, come and gone.

And still, since I’ve had my feet on familiar ground, I’ve never felt more like a foreigner trying to dictate my every growing feelings of restlessness into words.

So finally, here’s my attempt… at making some coherent sense of my unsettled heart.

 

————————

 

It is never quite easy saying goodbye. It doesn’t matter how much practive I’ve had, I’ve never been able to perfect this art.. and truthfully, I’m happy with that. It’s kept me honest and vulnerable, it’s kept me… quite frankly, me, in an ever-changing journey.

It’s kept me coming back home.

The thing about returning home though, is that you are never the same person who left.

Not with malicious intent, but, unfortunately, people will still treat you like you are, and they are normally the ones you love the most.

(But who doesn’t hold on to the past? I’m guilty of this, too.)

And that, for me, is always the hardest battle to fight when coming back.

 

I am not arrogant or ignorant enough to think that constructive change only happens to people who travel, well, at least not anymore. It simply isn’t, and will never be. Life has many different paths to choose from.

 

Personally, however, it is my favourite method of personal growth. I love the feeling of being lost in a city. I like meeting new people, and listening to different languages. Sure it can be frustrating at times, but the challenge of adapting to a new environment keeps me grounded. It keeps me humble, and I’d like to think it keeps me kind.

 

Because what I’ve learned is, no matter where you are in the world, no matter your mother tongue, your degree of education, what skin colour you contain, or how much money you have…

 

There is a universal truth that we are all trying to figure out life to the best of our ability.

 

It’s my personal motto — always change for the better. It’s what my tattoo symbolizes, and it’s what I want my life to reflect, too.

 

And so — Travel is my catalyst.

 

But the culture and societal standards of where I come from is not always… understanding… of how I lead my life.

 

I’m a 24 year old female, single, and without children. I would like to think that this is normal, and it truly is… in other countries. But in my corner of the world, it isn’t. Specifically, my state in the US.

 

I’m from general small town name here, Texas. Known for proper manners, big guns, conservative politics, and churches galore.

 

I should be happily married with 2.5 children, and have a husband/superior that works 40 hours a week and grills steak on the weekends – while I mange the kids, and worry about what scent of laundry detergent I want to be present within the confines of my household.

 

Okay, soooo maybe I’m exaggerating… a tad. The thing is, I have absolutely NO problem with the women and men who lead their lives in this manner. This is how we were raised, and belief is a beautiful honour.

 

But I truly do not care how other people live their lives, so long as they’re happy, not harming anyone, and it’s THEIR personal choice.

 

Yes, you’ve guessed it, reader. I’m a filthy fear-mongering feminist… guilty, send me to prison asap, as long as it’s like the prison in OITNB plz.

 

Truly though, I would probably classify myself as a humanist. I want people to do whatever they want that makes their heart happy, societal norms or not be damned.

 

Realistically though, this is not the general consensus of where I come from.

 

Let’s also add that I am Mexican and Vietnamese American, I am pro-choice, I understand the true historical intent of the 2nd amendment, I have a uterus, I do believe in God but not the traditional Christian one, I’m for universal healthcare and education, and that I’m gay.

 

I do not write these descritptions of myself to make a political statement, or argue viewpoints.

 

Or to throw a pity party. I’m not looking for handouts, sympathy, or conversion prayer.

 

I write this, to understand my personal position in the world, and how my cultural surroundings will effect how I express myself to the outside eye.

 

And so understand, when I come home I have to battle this all over again.

 

Last year coming home from Spain was the hardest thing I’ve had to do.

 

I initially moved to Spain to heal my broken heart and discover who I am independently of a significant other. That, truthfully, was my biggest problem, and I know how privledged that sounds – for heartbreak to be the biggest ailment of my 23 year old heart, but nonetheless I cannot deny how lost as a person I had become.

 

And by the end of that year, I transformed into someone I was proud of again. I moved past just existence and learned how to live again. Spain was a beautiful experience, because it allowed me to shed every expectation of every single person I had known at that point in my life.

 

Half a world away, I had no obligation as a daughter, friend, or girlfriend. And the three major points of my life disappearned and the only obligation I had was to my heart.

 

I lived simply for myself.

 

Here, I learned the value of self-love, and this radical notion that my happiness mattered too, changed my entire outlook on life.

 

Before, I would have put anyone’s wants, desires, dreams, goals in front of my own. I wanted to save people, from themselves. I wanted to fix whatever emotional trauma someone had that labeled them as damaged goods, called it a “hero” complex, which I still have to remind myself not to do — truly, I thought I was being altruistic, but now I see it as a form of self-destruction.

 

And I know now, that I am solely responsible for my own happiness, and no one else’s.

 

And so when I finally came back home in the beginning of last July, I had to manuever through the obstacles of what that would mean, and how that would effect my personal relationships.

 

It was not easy. There were fights, and there were tears. There were offensive words, and there were broken promises. I hurt people I didn’t mean to, and I suffered my own pain.

 

But throughout all of it — there was love.

 

And that is the most transformative energy in the entire universe.

 

Time and time again, I relearn through different situations that love is the only thing that will save my heart.

 

Thus being home has simultaneously been one of the most rewarding and heart-wrenching experiences I’ve thus far had.

 

I came home specifically to spend time with family and friends. I know, in my soul of souls, I will never again live in West Texas for an extended amount of time. I fear missing out on the lives of my loved ones.

 

Being abroad, and away from home, you experience so much. You learn that the world isn’t as scary as the media portrays, that your country isn’t the best in everyone’s opinion, that cheese has many more ways of being eaten than you could have imagined – and just so much more. You grow in ways you never thought possible.

 

But

 

What I forgot

 

Is that I wasn’t the only one changing and experiencing. You see, I came home different. And instead of extending that gratitude to my loved ones — instead, in the same way that they treated me the same, I followed suit.

 

And sometimes, I wanted to prove so desperately that I had changed and fixed myself that I ended up hurting people I wish, now, I hadn’t.

 

But such is life.

 

I was so furious that everyone kept treating me the same, and kept placing expectations on me of how I should be. It angered me beyond reasonable logic that my family and friends couldn’t understand the mental and emotional ways that I had changed. How the golden buildings of Belgium changed my distate for gold, how Greek cuisine incorporated onions and managed to appeal to my tastebuds, how Spanish attitude for leisure time made me forget my desire to join corporate America, how the Dutch use of weed for entertainment/medical purposes eased my holier than thou southern attitude against drugs — just the ways in which my mind and been remapped.

 

 

And sometimes, it’s frustrating how no one can relate to your experiences. But I, too, was close-minded to their personal growth. And this caused a lot of unnecessary arguments and pain — but nonetheless, it happened, and I am better off for it now.

 

It made me realize that personal growth… is just that, personal. And I have no right to hinder someone’s attempts at becoming better — now, I only want to honour the universe that resides in each individual’s heart.

 

And if I assume someone hasn’t changed, I become toxic to their happiness.

So realizing too, that sometimes I’m the toxic person, has made me strive to not only always change for the better, but to always change people for their better, too.

 

To be the positive influence or constructive criticism they need. To try and not say anything out of a place of jealousy or negative intent, and to always try to love, encourage, and help — even if I don’t agree, or understand.

 

And I was only able to realize all of this, after I learned to fully love myself… no matter where in the world I was. Once I respected my heart enough to allow it to feel and love and change, I was able to extend this to others, and it has been miraculous.

 

I’ve learned to fiercely love people, and I’ve learned to delicately let go.

 

But, I still haven’t learned to say goodbye, and maybe one day I will, but for now, I’m happy with where I am.

 

In 3 months, I will move my life to Germany for a couple of years to begin my master’s program.

 

The thought of leaving is making me mentally prepare for it again, the goodbye part. But, this time I’m not running away. This time, I’m running towards my future — and that makes all the difference.

 

I wonder who I’ll be when I come home next time.

 

I pray to God it’s someone my parents are proud of, and my friends still love as loyally.


Backyard, Texas 

lost and found 

There’s something about 3am that shifts the human soul. 

I found myself laughing hysterically along with you, the night sky above, beautiful velvet white sand beneath, and you beside me — the end of a lemon flavoured beer bottle pressed against my lips. My kind of definition of paradise.

Well, maybe not the beer.

I hate beer, still do, and probably always will — but I loved tasting it off of you. 

The sound of crashing waves complimented the silence enveloping between us, as our laughter died down. 

It wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. I could sit in your silence endlessly, and still be so captured by it. 

Your hand found mine in the space between our bodies, and instinctively I lifted your hand to my lips and kissed it. 

You turned on your side to face me, and placed the palm of your hand against my cheek, the end of your thumb caressing the skin beneath my eyes. 

You leaned in and affectionately planted a kiss on my nose. 

You had this weird obsession with my nose, found it cute you said,  I don’t know why — but I remember the way your soft lips felt curved against it. I remember the scent of your hot breath against my skin. 

But only because of you. 

Your eyes brightened, and you shot up into a sitting position. Rummaging through your backpack, you pulled out your sketchbook and pen. 

The pen moved fervently against the paper, you must have been inspired, I thought. But how you could see through the pitch blackness, I was unsure of. 

Once you were done, you rolled the paper up and shoved it inside my empty beer bottle. You stood up, and chunked the bottle into the ocean. 

“Hey I wanted to see what you had drawn.” I whined after you, now sitting up in the sand and watching you from the rear. 

You laughed and started to undress — obviously I was intrigued now. 

Your clothes fell to your feet, and you looked back at me waiting – coy smile stealing my gaze. 

Running over towards you while simultaneously shedding my layers of clothes — I crashed into you and our naked bodies collided and toppled into the ocean. 

Your adventurous heart was so — beautiful. I don’t know what other word or combination of letters I can use to describe it. But it was marvelous and I could no more contain my own heart from loving yours. 

We played like children in the sea, and the innocence of this will never leave me –you finally dragged me back to our blanket. I laid on top of it laughing, and you laid on top of me, your hands caging my face, a serious demeanor painted over yours. 

“Want to know what I put in the bottle?”

I nodded yes, sincerely curious by your change of pace. 

“I promise to love you forever.” 

“That’s a really long time,” I responded jokingly. 

You shook your head lightly laughing, “no, that’s what I wrote, so if you ever forget or if life ever takes you away from me, there will be proof in a bottle you kissed somewhere in the ocean..a little bit of us lost at sea.” 

—————-

Beer’s never quite tasted the same since then.. especially at 3am. 

columbian charm 

the joint of your fingers entwined and rubbed against mine as we stood outside the door to your flat, like flint, there were sparks surging through my bones ignited by your touch

 

i, admittedly, wasn’t used to this —

 

openly, more obviously clumsily, holding hands with someone

 

a gesture, I find to be very intimate

 

so I stood nervously behind you, clenched jaw, the tension locking up my body

 

i felt the squeeze of your palm and you looked back at me with your wide, beautiful smile, the sunkissed wrinkles around your eyes radiating curiosity

 

“has anyone ever told you how soft your hands are?”

 

my lips pursed into a half lined smile as i gazed into your liquid brown eyes — as your door creaked open revealing the inside of your livingroom occupied by a few people — your roommates

 

i introduced myself, the introvert within growing anxious with anticipatioin, the extrovert side of me displaying my natural wit and winning the room over with laughter.. a first go to social defense mechanism

 

i had become more accustomed to Spanish, now able to communicate my humour in ways i couldn’t before

 

as always though, I can never shake the first pangs of anxiety when walking into a room full of strangers, I let the dominant side of my personality take over, and put shy Trinh in cruise control

 

it’s always really impossible for people who get to know me to believe I am actually very shy

 

a shy confidence, i’spose

 

you noticed, as you pulled me away to your room, the coy laughter of your roommates fading into the background

 

greaaaaat, i thought to myself, as if I wasn’t nervous enough, I’ve somehow managed to luck my way into your intimate space

 

i cocked my eyebrow and sighed, as i flopped my body onto your bed — jokingly antagonizing you, “it’s barely our second date and you’ve already brought me home.. a little challenge por favor.”

your back to me, I heard you laugh, you probably even rolled your eyes and shook your head — i’ll honestly never know as you pulled your shirt up over your head and threw it at my face shielding my view

 

we had come to your flat for a change of clothes — i had been having a drink at a bar after work with some friends close to your university, and rather than meet up later, you asked if I wanted to meet up when your class was done and just come over while you got ready for our night out in the city

 

drunkenly, i agreed — wine is my best wingman

 

but i had sobered up already now, sitting on your bed watching you

 

i slid your shirt off from over my head after being intoxicated by your fragrance

 

i kinda have this thing for scent, if it attracts me, i am hooked

 

i’d even go as far to say that my own personal favourite compliment is, “you smell good.” i can’t help it, i’m a sucker for chemically inducing smells

 

and so I was pleased that your light scent fit you, fun and hardly over-bearing — your smelled like summer, warm and inviting, friendly, lovely

 

lost in thought i hadn’t realized you had stripped down to just the essentials of bra and underwear

 

either you were paying attention on our first date to when I said red was my favourite colour, or truly the universe is chaotically filled with lucky coincidences

 

the red lace hugged your hips delicately, your back still to me, you stepped into the middle of your chosen skirt and bent down to shimmy it up over your waist

 

my eyes traced the small birth spots on your right shoulder, to your spine counting each fragmented vertebrae, like stairs, my eyes were stepping down your back to the two dimpled cusps above your waist

 

i caught your eye in the mirror, watching me watching you, and looked away embarrassed — Madrid had accustomed me to openly gawking at someone without it being rude, it is just the culture where staring is not considered impolite — at least not in general

 

but now, here, i felt very soberly intrusive — “will you zip me up?”

 

flustered I nodded and got up behind you, taking hold of the top part of your skirt with one hand, and using my other to casually pull the zipper up

 

huh, i thought to myself, you could have easily done this yourself without my assistance —

 

i relished the view though, you were enjoying this as much as I, and that calmed me immensely — I don’t know why, but sometimes it’s hard for me to realize that maybe someone could want me as much as I want them on whatever level that manifests itself; emotional, physical, spiritually

 

you thanked me anyway, and swiped your waterfall of black hair away from your back to the front of your body fully revealing your naked bare shoulders

we paused for a few silent moments, our bodies inches away from each other, our gazes locked within the mirror in front of you

you turned around, playfully brushed your lips momentarily against mine, and nonchalantly shrugged on a shirt

 

for the next 20 minutes or so you put on your make up, and i sat on your bed advising you of what eyeshadows to blend and what lipstick to choose

 

i liked this about us, that i could simultaneously and mutually be interested in your friendship too

 

i am more than certain we had a great date afterwards, but it was the before part that i remember the most

 

the simple joy of experiencing someone doing normal things and having that intimate connection — the realization of the vulnerability to be allowed a glimpse of someone’s personal universe

 

————————-

 

Things don’t have to be extraordinary to be beautiful, even the ordinary can be beautiful.

27/4/2012

I remember performing this piece in front of an audience composed of my fellow university colleagues. Nerves and anxiety hijacked my body moments before it was my turn to converse with the mic. 

It was the first time I performed my own slam poetry. I got my first standing ovation that day for something I personally penned. I never shared that moment with anyone. Not my friends, not my parents, not my lover — anyone. I wanted that one perfect memory for myself — because I wasn’t comfortable fully with myself yet. No one knew me at that performance outside the stage. What I said, would never get back to me in ways I wasn’t emotionally and mentally prepared for. 

And now after all these years  — I’m ready to be me, unashamed and unapologetic. 

——————-

One of the biggest arguments is that my sexuality is unnatural,

Yet they have the right to believe in a book that has a talking snake and a pregnant virgin, and call that factual.

But my rights to marry the person I love and adore,

are being fought over amongst people who equate being a homosexual to a whore.

People that have their pockets filled with money politically drive this nation,

But I want them to step into my shoes and have their rights taken.

Then they will understand how it feels to only have a pocket full of dreams and hope.

Then they’ll know how it feels to have their unalienable rights casted for a vote.

We the people, are supposed to have the right to freely exercise any religion we desire.

Separation of church and state it says, then tell me why is it required,

For me to marry a man in order to be socially accepted

So the public won’t have to fear of being homsexually infected

Because I’ve been told I have a disease, and I’ve been told that that I need to be blessed from this sickness.

Then why can’t I call into work and say with ease, “I’m suffering homosexuality today, I can’t go into business.”

Tell me when my heart became a battlefield for the public to influence and abuse.

Tell me when my relationship became a political muse – to drive campaigns left or right, blue or red

Tell me when social justice became dead.
And if you want to judge me or any one else,

I dare you to get to know all of my heart, and read the library in my mind, take the books off the shelves.

You see because I’d rather be judged for what’s in my heart, and my head,

Than all these condemning and hypocritical verdicts of who I take to bed.

I am definitely not the first, and I know with all my religious conviction I won’t be the last,

Straight people should stop having gay children, and then their sons will stop taking it in the ass.

Because I’ve seen the disappointment in a mother’s distant eyes, I’ve seen the way a church congregation looks at someone different with despise.

And I’ve seen the malicious weight placed upon a religious figure, to heal me of my sins, the talk of my sexuality has become bigger

than God himself.

And while we are on the subject of he himself, the lessons he teaches of love, has become my good health.

For some of his followers have filled themselves with rules and hate, all the while my love remains an ongoing subject of impassioned debate.

Hear the greatest commandment, love thy neighbor as they self, tell me you who are listening, where have you placed your treasure and wealth?

For mine is buried in the love for a girl I would gladly boast to the world and tell,
for her I’d gladly and full-heartedly choose hell

And if it means my soul is damned, then damned for love I’ll be

Tell me is your God angry enough to send me to hell based on my innocent sexuality?

For I’ve heard they call him the alpha and omega, and I’ve heard his name as father, 

I’ve heard the name savior, but what really strikes a resonating chord is the Living water.

In science class I learned that water takes the shape of its container,

And recently I view God as a masterful artist, the greatest of painters

But I’ve learned to love myself as a beautifully misunderstood masterpiece 

I want to believe God is greater than any god placed on Mt. Olympus of Greece.

So then I should not fear the thought of condemnation for my sexuality,

When the Living water has taken the His shape of me – for I am a vessel of hope and prosperity

See this voice in my head, keeps whispering beautiful thoughts of redemption

Where I don’t have to fear my sexuality as a sin of intention.

Because this was never a choice in my power, it just happened naturally as a flower

opens up its bud when hit with the rays of spring’s sunlight – life is paved

Because in my love, I know God is in delight – I am saved.