I told you in a dance performance as I let my body move in ways I never let my voice express.
I told you when I refused him bodily but allowed him to violate me emotionally and mentally.
I told you in fields of red poppies on the side of an Asheville highway.
I told you in the blue forest of Georgia when I said, “It might be a while.”
I told you when I met her. She offered me a glass of water and a bed. We fell on his laundry and her cigarette ashes. Everything spun, and I could only breathe. “Mama's tired,” she said. “It's OK,” I whispered. “I don't know what I'm doing.” She held me, and we slept.
I told you when I rode my bike home the next morning, fighting every urge in my body to scream out to everyone in the city.
I told you when I shoved it back down and let him experience what I never let any boy experience before, doing the only thing I could to prove myself wrong. And I told you again when I rolled away, knowing something was mistaken without being able to express it.
I told you when I sat at my kitchen table, ruminated through my past, and enumerated all the undeniable bits of proof. My roommate threw them in the frying pan with the red peppers and onions, and we ate sir-fried secrets for dinner.
I told you when I sat on my bed fighting back the tears until my roommate came in and I collapsed. I failed at pretending to be someone everyone else wanted me to be.
I told you when I went to the bookstore and sat in front of the Queer Studies section for an hour looking for an answer.
I told you when I came home and you explained that my old friend just came out and her mom still loves her and you would never disown a child because the New Testament says nothing against that.
I told you when you asked, and I said, “No,” and laughed uncomfortably before changing the subject to the dog or the new plants around the pool or the last movie I saw.
I told you when I sat on the kitchen counter and listened to you tell me you'd love me no matter what. I grabbed your arm, and the energy from your elbow rushed through my hand and out of my mouth before I knew what to do. I said it. I think you blinked. “I already knew,” you smiled, and I watched two decades of fear drip into the cheese quesadilla you were cooking for me. You piled on the salsa and burned the bottom of the tortilla.
I told you when you went down the street to visit a friend, and I didn't accuse you of what I knew you were going to talk about because you came back and held me until it was okay to cry.
I told you when I went to the grocery store with her. I listened as she tried to describe in detail the wonderful life I had in front of me if I could just be patient.
I told you when we sat next to each other on our yoga mats staring into the red curtain in front of us, searching for different answers to the same question. Chaturangas, Vinyasas, and Savasanas. Every asana spoke a different truth you were welcome to accept or deny. You climbed onto my mat and held me while we cried.
I told you when we sat in front of the fire drinking wine and watching the logs burn. You left, and we talked about parasites on palms. I wanted to cry, but you were in the kitchen.
I told you when I finished your dinner because you were too sick to eat anything. I knew it was me that made you sick.
I told you when I held in my tears and stood proud and strong before him. “I'm your father, and I love you, but I won't let you screw up your life.” The tears hid for another hour after he turned his back on them. I would not let you see or hear or know.
I told you, but I just don't know if you ever listened.
