“No, you’re not gay,
you like Taylor Swift
music,” my brother said
years ago, in the dusty basement
on the couch in the corner with
my cousin, the conservative
Catholic, who laughed when I told her
on Facebook.
She was voted most likely
to be gay back when we all
joked on that couch with that
Disney movie playing in the background.

It wasn’t her. It was me.

I, with the pet names too affectionate,
and the eyes that wandered
over hair and breasts and lips,
and the daydreams too bright,
too vivid to be ignored.
I, with eyes for boys and girls alike.
I, with the femininity
that I thought was a role, destining me
to be “normal”.

Yes, you can like girls or boys
or anyone you want.
But not I.
Not I, with the blue-tipped hair
and the rose earrings, too pink, too graceful
for me to crave two genders,
for me to desire anything other than
boys, boys, boys.