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.
