I think I like girls...
It was scribbled on the bathroom stall
quickly, deliberately, fearfully
aware of every high heeled footstep
coming and going on the other side of the door.
I want to reply to her confession
but I have no pen with which to write
so I gently kiss her words with
compassion and assurance
and hope she feels it on her fingertips.
Who is it that has told this confession's
hesitant hand that a higher power
might disapprove of that kind of love?
Whose reproach caused the waver of the lines
that were scrawled out in a single moment
of clarity and openness, defiance and truth?
Whose heart is it that sincerely believed
life would be better if the fingers would never
clasp the pen, if the wrist would never curl the "g",
if the words would never find a voice?
I thank God the words finally did,
in the color of blue on a wooden stall door,
and I ask forgiveness for the soul that caused
her hand to shake as she wrote her truth,
and I pray that someday her ellipsis
will turn into an exclamation! and that
her voice might someday not only be spoken
through a shaking hand,
but through a loud shout,
a proud heart,
and a kiss of love on some girl's lips.