James Gale

I never got that summer romance,
Nor the joyous feeling
of being understood.
Never got my happy ending
Or felt accepted in my truth.

A teenage love wasted,
No coming-of-age moment
In my book.
Only a lot of shaming
And hiding from the truth.

Different than normal,
A distinction between
Evil and good.
My feelings were a crime,
And I hid them
As much as I could.

And when my truth
Was finally spoken,
They ran from my presence
As if I were a wolf
Hunting them in the woods.

As if my existence alone
Was the most awful sin,
A feeling that stayed with me
Throughout my whole youth.