Dear World #LoveSimon

Dear World

Dear World,

I haven't been around long, unlike you. But, I have seen things, and felt things. And what I felt never did get defined; I never got a label, never got the one thing I'd been struggling to find my entire life. That all-encompassing form of relief and acceptance: the label.
What was mine - would I ever know?
The answer, I still am unaware of. All I know is I felt, I feel, and I live.

I was twelve years old when I met Serena. She was twelve years old when she met me. We had met, and that was the birth of my torment. Or, maybe I shouldn't say that. I'm always worrying about what to say, you know? I'm always concerned I'm being too dramatic, unabashedly naive, too quiet, too loud. And she had that same problem, Serena. And, to be frank, we both had terrible lives for a couple of dorks.

Serena Flores was not only born to a mother and father, but to a life of abuse, pain, and, uncertainty. She had lived life searching for the love and support she was denied, and will likely continue searching. I, myself, had been born to a stress case and an addict. I had no siblings, unlike Serena, until my mother and father got together on a scandalous, drunken night, and produced my eccentric little sister.
But Serena, her problem area was with big sisters. I'll go out and say it, even if I am a strong believer of sugar coating.

Serena Flores was hurt at a very young age.
She wasn't the same.
And I was cruel enough to expect her to love me, an anxiety-ridden, depressed, poor, non-conforming, queer kid such as herself.

And I know love is a strong word. It wasn't until I was thirteen that I even considered it, began to consider it with another female. But Serena was a lesbian. Everyone at school knew, and so did I.
But, she was gorgeous. And she was just like me. And she was funny. And she was interesting, fun, kind - a poetically broken enigma.
And we'd talk, like, all the time.

She'd tell me about her problems, I'd tell her about mine. We'd tell each other how much we loved each other, how much I wanted her to stop cutting, and how desperately she wanted me to socialize with other people. That was painful, and so was the fact that she seemed oblivious to how in love with her I was, for years.

To cut a long story short, we lost contact. We lost contact, but I didn't loose myself. My unlabeled, dishonest, queer self. And I'm still dishonest; that me really, truly, is not gone. We are not perfect, especially not me. I'm here, I'm queer, and no one knows.
Not even Serena.

So, here's a bit of advice from me:

Please, world, go tell your Serena.
For me, for you, and for us.

Love,
@fiction-n-friction