finding home

i was seven years old-- a thin freckled thing
with long chicken legs and crooked teeth-- 
already confused and angry at the way the world was so cruel. 

i was nine years old, loud and energetic
and sometimes (more than sometimes) lonely,
knowing that i loved my best friend 
in a way she would never-- could never-- love me. 
i remember having my heart broken because i didn’t
have the words to bring that part of me to life. 

i was twelve years old, walking in the park with my grandparents,
ice cream melting in the summer heat, dripping down my sticky fingers. 
“it’s not … right,” my grandmother whispered to my grandfather
as their stares fell upon two girls walking down the street in front of us,
holding hands and laughing. my chest tightened.
“it’s not …,” she paused, thinking. “natural.”
i didn't understand how love could be wrong. 

i was thirteen years old, hands trembling as i held back tears.
my friends sat in front of me, silent and unmoving.
it felt like an eternity-- me trying not to cry, them processing my words;
replaying my long-winded speech in their minds;
“i think i’m…” (no, i don’t think, i know.) “i’m gay.” 
then finally, i felt arms around me; holding me tightly,
embracing me… the real me: the little girl who loved her best friend.
I had finally found had the right words to bring that part of me to life. 

i was fifteen years old when i kissed a girl for the first time--
and dandelions exploded out of the cracks in the armor i had built for myself.
i remember thinking that for the first time in my life,
i felt like i could build a home in my own body,
and be happy there.