Obligatory Coming Out Poem

I remember the first time someone asked me if I liked girls.
And, the funny thing is, that I remember saying, "No!"
in the exact same way that I had ten years earlier
on the playground
the first time that I was accused of liking boys,
who, at the time, were infested with cooties—
we were sure of it.

And then five years later, when a friend confessed
that she'd always wanted to kiss a girl, just to see,
but that she had realized that day,
while getting her hair done at a salon,
that she could not possibly be bisexual
because she saw a male hairdresser massaging
his client's neck and she hoped that
her female hairdresser would massage her
in the same way,
but then her wish came true and she didn't like it.

"It didn't feel sexy. It just felt like
I wished she'd hurry up and cut my hair."
And my friend turned to me,
after her confession,
I could tell half-expecting me to come out to her,
or at the very least,
to make up a similar story to validate my sexuality.
But I didn't. I just kept chewing my toast,
and then, I think, I wondered aloud
if it might taste better
with real butter instead of margarine.

And then a few years later
a real-live, honest-to-god, out-of-the-closet lesbian
asked me if I'd be her nude model and I said yes
and I did it
and then asked me to sleep with her and I said yes
and I did it
and then asked me to go on a date with her and I said yes
and I did it.

Still, I had to borrow my roommate's go-to sage gay male friend
because while I picked out which dress to wear,
I kept saying, "But I'm not gay. What am I doing? I'm not really gay."
And he handed me a yellow sundress and pulled me together,
saying, "Decide if you like her first; decide if you're gay later.
You can figure out the rest from there."
So I did it, and I came back smiling,
thinking that she'd talked a lot but maybe that was a good thing,
thinking that maybe she thought that I didn't talk enough, slightly worried.
When he asked, "Did you like her?"
I said,"Yes."

And then she was there and she was a part of my life
and she was soft and she smelled like clean laundry
and like a little bit of sweat sometimes
and she was in my bed and at my table and in my head
and she was giving me nicknames and playing with my hair
and my thoughts were all dust caught in the wind.
And I want to tell you all that I was in love.
And I want to tell you all that nothing else mattered.

But it did matter
because I never really got to that deciding if I was gay part,
and now she was lying about ex-girlfriends,
and showing up at my work, and she was getting a job there too,
and she was inviting me to meet her parents,
and she was off and on and off her pills,
and she was crying for no reason.

And I wasn't sure that I liked her,
and I wasn't sure that I was gay,
but I knew that I felt small,
small like my speck of dust thoughts
sent swirling into nothingness by her breath
and getting caught in her eye,
so small that if she shed one more tear
I was sure that she'd drown me.

And so I ran away.
I ran away to the arms of a man, to the house of a man,
where I thought I was safe, thought the the lesbians couldn't get me.
But then it was a month or two later
and I was asking myself if I really liked my boyfriend
and I couldn't figure out the answer
but it didn't matter.

Because I was asking myself if I was straight,
and the answer was, "No!"
and it sung out in the same schoolyard tone
as when I'd first been accused of liking boys,
and I could figure out the rest from there.