so, people who don’t have boners for the people we were expected to have them for when we were born—and sometimes consequently feel like we’re being run over by a truck.
and it means when we’re growing up, sometimes our joy, our coughing fits, and our literal boners/figurative boners/heart rate changes/floods of emotion, brought on by tv shows or some classmate playing the piano for our 6th-grade choir concert while wearing cool barrettes, just make us feel like SHIT.
instead of surprising us with their reverence and glee, these stirrings just are like poison. something going down the wrong pipe. no real place to put it, ever, when we get older—just this sense of a chink in your armor, this baby alien that has taken root and is about to burst out of your body and destroy everything in sight. so we did everything to keep it in.
and probably, by the time we’re older, which is now—here it is. part of us. and we feel however we feel about it.
reblog if you’re not a radical queer.
OR, if you are radical (which apparently means loving cupcakes?) you know your experience also belongs to people who are not.
Love you so much.
I wound up getting Outed to my second mother the other night. It was terrifying. You better believe I’m clinging to “I was born this way.”
