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The media paints us in dark red lipstick, long stiletto nails, pretty long hair.

Or we can only be seen with short hair, flannels draped upon our shoulders.

When I told the world I loved her imagines of scissoring, stiletto fingers pressed inside, and lipstick stains flooded through their minds.

Not the truth. Not the hidden glances we share in public. Not the fear to hold hands because there was a shooting of a gay couple in our city last night. Not the shared tears of pain, crying on each overs shoulders, whispering soothing sounds.

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