All I want from my parents is for them to be proud of me. I want them to know me, to see me as a good person. But I know they don’t. And that makes it hard. I want from them what I can’t have. Just like they want from me something I can’t give. Their version of righteousness and holiness. They want straightness and Christianity and grandchildren. I want none of those things. They see my queerness as a choice. A pitfall. A sin I indulge in. Just as I see their prejudice as a choice. I have shed my ignorance. I know hate. How it works and how it takes root. They are made blind from it. They believe it to be a holy intolerance of sin. I know it as a parasite that molds their perspectives. They feed it insecurity and it intoxicates their blood with that addicting effect of superiority. A sense of power and dignity over me. One that they truly don’t possess. Their devotion to a god that declares all as loved, worthy, and equal is as real as vapor. It may be seen by others, but it’s not solid. Not steady, nor reliable. Not really there. Just as their love for me is. They feel it. They know it to be true. And yet all I can feel is that it is not enough. I long to be full and content with the care they provide. Yet now I know the depth of pure love. One that is not hollow or breakable, tainted with conditions. One painted in the feeling you get in the spring. A promise of growth and sun rays on your irises. A breeze of cool wind in the warm evening. Enveloping, soothing, good, complete love. A love that is given freely. A love that does not waver. A love I deserve.

Love is patient

Love is kind

Love does not envy or boast

It is not proud or rude

Love keeps no record of wrongs

Love is not conceited

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres

Love never fails.