I didn't want to be gay.

I didn't ask to feel that way.

But then you came in—

soft voice, sweet words,

eyes that made me question everything

I thought I knew about myself.

You made it feel okay.

Like maybe the way I looked at you

wasn't something to bury or hide.

Like maybe I could finally breathe.

I let myself feel it.

I let you in.

And for a second,

I thought that I meant something to you too.

But you were never really mine.

You were always waiting for him.

And I was just the stepping stone,

the story you'd forget,

the girl you used

to pass the time.

It messed me up.

You woke something in me

and then walked away like it didn't matter.

Like I didn't matter.

Now I tell myself I'm not gay.

Because I'm not.

It disgusts me.

I couldn't ever see myself with a girl again—

not after what you did,

not after what it made me feel.

If someone asks, I'll say I'm straight.

Because I love men.

Because I want to love men.

Because I know God wouldn't accept me

If I chose otherwise.

And I was willing to hate myself for you—

but never again.

I'll forget all of it.

All the feelings, all the moments,

because that was a disgrace.

A mistake I'll never repeat.

I'll always support the queers.

They're brave.

But me? Never.

Not again.

Not even if it kills me to say it.