The Queerest [🗸]

names n' fruity shit

me: if you're told to do something for your safety, do you censor who you are in expense of that ??

me: or do you just fuck the system and hope it doesn't end you killed :// ??

Fruit hasn't read the messages yet, and I can feel myself physically deflate. Tucking my phone back into my back pocket, I adjust the ugly ass t-shirt I'm wearing before swinging my backpack over my shoulder as I head downstairs.

Speeding down the stairs, I make my way into the kitchen, eyes scouting the space for some toast before my eyes meet my mom's.

Her hair is curly, stopping just above her shoulders. She purses her lips, exhaling a sigh as she sees how fucking basic I look. Her eyes soften as she watches me, and she nearly looks more hurt than I do.

I shrug at her, giving her a half grin as I rummage through the fridge. I know that she loves me so fucking much, wishes I could express myself in the way I feel most comfortable.

She, Dad, they've always been like that. Never doubting my strength, while never preventing me from doing what I feel most comfortable doing. Judging or gaslighting isn't a thing in this household.

Maybe it's because Dad was raised by staunch feminists, maybe it's because my mother was knocked up by some asshole as a teenager before having a miscarriage. That was when she was New York, throughly fucked up by the foster system.

She moved to Rapid City for a fresh start, and that was when she met him, my dad.

Then it became them. Soft spoken, dark-skinned Dad and warm skinned, torn-by-life, Mom. It became them against the world. No judgement, no deflecting, just two people from completely different backgrounds that knew what love was.

Then, they had me, and it became us.

And it's always been us. Our team.

My lips quirking upwards, I think back to when I was thirteen.

Mom and I were in the mall that day. It was for a new pair of jeans, a hunt for some new clothes. I remember us wandering down the isle, and Mom kept on asking me if I saw anything I liked. 

It was funny how the clothing stores were strictly divided by gender. I remember wondering why girls could have flowers and pink, while I was stuck with cars and the color blue. It just was. An unspoken rule that cars were for guys and flowers were for girls, and that was it.

And while I was looking around, that's when I saw it.

It was on the other side of the store. The most beautiful dress I'd ever laid my eyes on. It was a pale blue. And I wanted it, so badly. Because it stood out. I was insane for that, I knew. A dress didn't have to tie to a gender, because it's fucking cloth, but it was tied to a gender, and I was not that gender and I didn't feel like I was.

So, I just glanced over it from the other side of the shop, because I knew that I'd be crossing an unspoken rule if I tried anything more. 

Mom saw my gaze and followed it. Then her eyes had returned to mine and she'd asked me if I wanted to try it on. And all I was thinking was: fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

But she wasn't judging me. She was simple about it. The way your parent would ask whether you wanted a cupcake or a donut, the way someone might ask if you wanted a blue pencil sharpener or a yellow one.