nine:
A fresh orange slice hits my lips,
black Skullcandy buds fit snug in my ears,
the vibrations of Katy Perry lift my spirit away,
and I think I’m straight.
twelve:
My mother tells me my grandma “lives with her best friend”
not the love of her life.
My father tells me I will bring home “a good man to take care of me”
not a partner to make me happy.
I’m told I’m straight.
sixteen:
Blisters getting worse from
Breaking in my Docs,
biting at my nails,
blooming butterflies
breaking into my chest,
Halsey steps off the stage,
“If I ever had a girlfriend
she would look like her”
but I’m still straight.
nineteen:
Maybe that was gay.
Each year and all the ones between.
Maybe when I was obsessed with Avril Lavine,
when I liked dressing more masculine,
or asked the new girl to kiss me,
and wanted nothing more than to kiss her again,
Maybe when I lived,
when I breathed-
that was gay.
Maybe I am like my grandma.
Genevieve Swanson is a senior at DePaul University, studying Theatre Arts Directing. Although she is mainly a playwright, she likes experimenting with new forms of writing. Her position as Head Writing Fellow at the University Center for Writing-based Learning encourages her to continue to explore and grow as a writer.