//"INDEPENDENCE"
Dear Middle Kid;
We grew up in the perfect town that some called a state. You sat near my sister during my seventh-grade presidential elections — I had the dumbest speech. The girl who would become a Victoria secret model to an upcoming generation of frat boys; told all her friends not to vote for me. I bet you cast your ballot for that guy who follows you on Instagram, now. Before we all watched strangers on the left coast rate your nudes, we sat in schools built by Trump-supporting dudes. Soon, I hope to switch my fun fact to — Joe Biden, the US President, went to my old high school. Ha! Tis the season of choosing between two baboons. I know you know me; I am the previously popular girl of white suburbia who went crazy.
Got taken out of my bed in the middle of the night for smoking weed at the country club. I was just a stubborn teenage hippie wannabe. And three days before Thanksgiving, I learned how cold hard cash can create the illusion of prison bars — that no judge would have sentenced. My diaries were used as evidence; there was no search warrant issued. Agree or disagree but the same monster system locks people up for who they wanna be.
When my dead friend first fell in love; they threw her a hot seat and lit her on fire. They called teenage lesbian love perversion. They acted as if sexuality was a grooming costume. It was horrifying exploring homophobia.
So, hi — let me open to your page in my ancient notebook journals. Hmm. Oh, here you are.
Once down the beach, a friend and I were sitting outside a private oceanfront home — she exclaimed how she did not understand how Chris Klemen's thought he was bullied; apparently, he said this online somewhere. “He was like friends with me,” the cis-straight girl said, “I was like popular”. My eyebrows raised. And the scene has now shifted; I am claustrophobically breathing inside the upstairs closet. I immediately needed out; I desired to inhale the salty air on the balcony. And exhale into the slower lower winds. Privilege is its own form of sufferfest; and baby, some of us sat at the top of the hierarchy.
Sexuality worn like a burgundy “A” stitched to a letterman’s jacket. Later leaned into that painful childhood emotional violence. Destined to be one of the bitches; did you head to the city for some fresh air? So, when I stepped in the voting booth four moons ago; you had deleted me as a friend on Facebook. This was before you were an oober internet influencer. Ooo. This was before my secret love of lesbian vlogs literally was interrupted by a face in my past. What the fuck? I asked you where to find photo stock images on messenger. Who the fuck? Learned helplessness program into my brain; I couldn’t be an artist, politely. I had to step out and offend. And it’s heartbreaking. In those yesteryears; I regretfully voted like my dad said so. And when I sat down and told my husband that I was pan; it was like INDEPENDENCE, for my soul.
A youthful energy sprung out as I began to recreate myself. Honest transformation in an age where expression could be praised; instead of shamed. To hide my own sexuality I joined a cult; prayed to Jesus — to take away the gay. But please; could he leave the porn? And the bouncing jugular gifs? I guess after master-bating, I just felt the need to apologize. I am sorry, not sorry. I felt so misunderstood, so I wrote this damn poem. And I am going to hang this video in the public square because I can’t hide anymore. I need to shine. I must remove this mud caked on my heart. Expression not digestion; I am who I am. I am not sorry that I am sorry. Because I prayed to be normal and I am stuck with just me.
Hi, again; friend of a friend, back home.
Where the grass seems like it is always green; the back roads twist and turn next to tiny streams. Five private schools lined up in a row; I am who my daddy says so. Drunken parties; stolen kisses, secret blowjobs. We all saw in a town with so many fucking eyes all around. We were born famous in the hallways of a tiny upside-down boot.
Uhh Hi, I don’t really know you. I know of you; which isn’t you. But I can reminisce about the worst days of our lives that they told us would be the greatest. So what — if this type of hurt is like clawing at an unbeatable rash; minimized as relatable teenage angst. Sure, it is not bone throbbing, heart wrapped in barbwire —torture. But it still itched. And it’s still valid.
Were you bullied? Hell fucking Yes. And I still remember the sound of laughter that rang in the hallways at just the sound of your voice. To me you are just that weird middle school kid in my sister's grade. And then you’d became friends with all my friends. And who am I? Just a girl who is obsessed with memories. I just wanted to validate you. And every other queer kid who doesn't want to remember what it was like to grow up.
From just another person,
In your permanent past.