Like a pig flying across the night sky,
they say I'm not natural; there's something
wrong with me. Or they say that it's just
a phase that will pass with the right person,
like shadows when day fades into twilight.
It is all over, so all must want it.
My textbooks tell me that I need it,
that humans are built in such a way that
it's necessary for being, for bliss:
just as trees require sunlight to grow.
Am I inhuman for not wanting it?
They ask, how could I ever love somebody
without it? 'Cause you can have it without
love, but God forbid I love without it.
God forbid I cast aside the normal
and create some kind of love without it.
For, they say, Romeo and Juliet,
Hamlet and Ophelia, they even
needed it to solidify their love.
But how can one compare me to fiction,
to tragedies written long ago?
Moreover, how could I tell the person
I love that I don't want it, only to
watch them turn away and leave forever--
like a ghost fading as the sun rises:

mistake, inhuman, broken, immature.

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