Poetry: Aro/Ace - On the Slightly Awkward Subject of My UnSexuality

Closet? What closet? I'm coming out of an antique mahogany almirah decorated with rainbow butterflies. 

Aro/Ace –

Sounds like the kinda thing you’d say on Tumblr.

Or would have, when you were fifteen,

If you were into that sort of thing.

I wasn’t, personally. I was too busy–

Trying to make friends (with dubious success)

Get passing grades (a huge fucking mess)

And simply exist (without knowing it) as an aro/ace.

What’s that? I couldn’t have told you.

Not then, when it was all confusing and new.

I barely understand it now, and I’m just a year short

Of a quarter of a century to the day I was born.

Well, I guess it’s a distinct lack of butterflies,

In your intestines, where their natural turf supposedly lies.

I s’pose it’s also a few awkward dates, a few epic fails

But that, in my life, is just a reasonably good day.

You prude. So rude. What the fuck, dude?

That was a perfectly good platitude

Of romantic intent, if a bit commonplace

But who said teenage love was about originality anyway?

A shrug. Coffee mug. I’m not against clichés.

I’ll drink it black and wallow in my own uniqueness.

I’m a strong, independent rebel who doesn’t need no man,

Unless he can play guitar, then he’s part of the gang.

‘Tis a bit of a strange identity

To be not who I am, but what I mustn’t be.

The unoppressed minority,

Or just a pretentious wannabe?

And sometimes, it’s just confusing as hell,

Did I break the fucking Kinsey scale?

Truth is, I’m all of the above

Though to get there was a bit of a learning curve.

But hell, I’m a year short of twenty-five,

Too old for this angsty Tumblr jive.

So there, I said it, I’m aro/ace,

And with that I conclude this awkward exposé.