Not allowed to simply be—
every breath evidence submitted
to a court that never recesses,
every love a thesis defended
before judges who decided
our existence needs more proof
than theirs ever did.
Your marriage is a certificate.
Ours is a manifesto,
a legal brief filed against
the state of things,
photocopied and notarized
and still somehow insufficient.
We are told: be good, be quiet,
be twice as worthy, half as visible,
earn the right to exist
through excellence alone—
as if love could be graded
on a curve we didn't write.
Don't be flamboyant, they say.
(Don't give them reasons.)
Don't attract attacks, they warn.
(Don't make us targets too.)
Family sighs: Why must you
make us victims?
As if difficulty were our choice,
as if we chose the burden
of carrying everyone's comfort
on our backs like a cross
we never agreed to bear.
So keep your burden of proof.
Our only burden is to be healthy and happy—
only what any parent would want
for their child. And more:
to thrive, to exceed expectations
not to please you, but because
we are brilliant.
Our hearts beat without your permission.
Our love is our own volition.