When I saw someone like me on TV
i was 13.
she was fiction
and to me she felt so real
she was kindness and strength
and i was in awe
she was mystery and happiness
and i was enthralled
she was perseverance and friendship
and i was waiting every day to see her again on the tv screen.
and there she was with blonde hair and blue eyes
and there i was staring
she was there saving people and making plays
and i was there cheering her on
she was allowed to love women, to kiss them and wake up next to them draped in conveniently placed sheets
and i was wondering if i would be allowed to do the same
she was the best friend and the sister and the co-worker. her hands were so capable but they looked so warm and comforting. her life was so happy but surrounded in tragedy. she made her own fate she did the right thing. she loved and she lost. she made me believe I could have a future as a girl who like other girls, that i could love and kiss whoever i wanted.
.
.
.
.
and she was dead
and what did that mean for me
YOU ARE READING
Beatrice Jaymes~ a collection of work
Poesíapoetry personal essays snippets of stories that will never be written (looks better on scroll mode than paging)
