I never told my parents I was gay.

Never mentioned that I would not be giving them grandchildren.

An eleven year old’s mind, full of insecurity, but eleven year old’s will listen.

Listen to the news that you watch

Listen to the nighttime conversations

The fearsome phrases over Friday dinners

I heard them all.

Fought a war with myself over who deserved to win.

Went to church camp every year to silence the yearning in my heart

To silence my love.

I never told my parents I was in pain

Never told them I loved a god who they said could never love me

Never knew that’s what they meant when they said it.

I never told my parents why I wrote on my walls or avoided coming home

They never knew why I was afraid to look them in the eyes.

Never knew that suicide was a hieroglyphic I had carved into the curving of my thigh.

I never gave them an explanation.

When I moved 6 hours from home,

They resented my unwillingness to call home. Resented my unwillingness to hear them speak. Unwillingness to hear after hearing them agree that someone like me should rather die than find love.

I never told my parents I was gay.

Over eleven years later I am alone. Scarred from a relationship they never knew existed.

Dizzy from experiences they could only speculate about.

Everyday my brother becomes more insistent that I come out.

That I share my sexuality with those who raised me. If you can really call it that.

As if they have a right to know.

As if they’d ever known me without forcing me to hide everything I was.

“I’m breaking their heart” he claims

As if somehow not telling them who I sleep with is worse than two decades of being told that I do not deserve to live.

But it is August now.

I have lived so much life in such a short amount of existence.

I never told my parents I was gay

I wanted my exile to be on my own terms

In my own country

To build my home before they had a chance to take one from me.

I never told my parents I was gay.

Until now