On the night I consider coming out to my parents
after Julian Randall
My hands are cold. I am afraid: can I do such things through the phone? It won’t hurt so much when my mother cites ancient texts instead of her heart. A thousand miles away my parents are praying for me in between their evangelical twists and turns. A small girl grew up, somehow. Grew up and fell in love with her best friends. My hands are cold. Where has all my blood gone? A thousand lightyears away my Jesus is crying. It isn’t real love if I have to ask for it, if I have to extract it from your dissected prayers, somehow. Can I step into the light if it means I’ll be standing alone? I am afraid: I stare at my phone. I am no one's eulogy and no one's prose. There are cracks in the binding of my bible in the binding of my spine from standing up straight. My hands are cold.
