Gay Rights, a word quickly slipping off American tongues,

breathing in deep gulps of air through

F*ck H8! 

and the Human Rights Campaign.

White men, proud: they've been heard once more.

Young girls, mocked,

"Lesbian" is now so much more of a degrading term.

Worse, still, "Bisexual."

Erasure is the word I write.

Erasure of more than civil rights.

We may have permissions, overlooked by the Man,

but scoffed at by any man.

Erasure: much like an incorrect response on that calculus test.

I may tell you I relate, but you cry out that it isn't the same.

"You can still be with your love," you scream,

"no one is tearing down your flags."

Erasure: much like a misspelled word in an English essay.

"I am a villain in everyone's story," you preach.

You may be a villain, but at least you are written!

You are the villain in the stories of those who are against basic human rights,

a villain to those who fear themselves and a God who loves. 

At least you are a villain in their stories.

You are hurt by the woman who bore you, 

the men who sign your paychecks refuse to sign them any longer.

A ridicule that can be protested,

a hatred that can hate back and be fought in court of law.

A movement and a fight with allies and community members,

while I am told I do not exist.

You fight your battles while I am told mine aren't real:

I found myself at fourteen pleading with my own heart to please just

make up my own mind.

FIghting wars on hate I would gladly replace,

with waging against myself for an identity that doesn't seem to exist.

A void where I am neither hero nor villain because no one will write me into their stories.

You may be a villain, but at least your voice is heard.

You may be a villain, but at least someone has told you

you have a place in this world.

You have a reason to be proud.