Posted By: Rusham Sharma
Hush, I listen.
“It’s like when you like a particular book of an uncommon genre
I haven’t read it
You talk about it once, I’ll listen
Talk about it twice, I’ll hear it out
You say it again and again, I’m bound to get tired!”
Hush, I stay quiet, like always.
At least he isn’t homophobic.
At least he didn’t ignore me.
At least he talks to me.
At least he didn’t abandon me.
A story of at leasts,
Story of losing friends
Story of not coming out, but crawling out and getting in when scared
It’s suffocating, dark and lonesome
The silence inside the closet silences
But at least it is safe
At least, at least, at least.
He turned my questions into a book
A genre half of the people identify with
That half becomes uncommon
Uncommon not because it’s unnatural or “just a phase”
Uncommon because I know why, I really do
For it’s found either on the internet or in closets
Not at a family dinner, neither at a classroom
They say it’s millennial culture, but is it?
A genre that goes from Troye Sivan to Nanette to Queer Eye to Love, Simon ; but stops right there.
Millennials hardly make it easier for us,
They make it subtle,
They make it hard to find,
They make it a story of at leasts.
My coming out doesn’t need your disgust or hatred or silence,
Or your performative wokeness that lasts shorter than my “gay phase”;
It doesn’t need your ‘Cool, I don’t care’,
We’ve been scared for too long for that
It at least needs a hug.