Who’s Choosing?

I’m sorry for how I made you feel.
I see your hurt, I know it’s real.
I was in a frantic, dying, panicked state,
my resultant actions were far from great.

It looks like I’m flipping you all the birds,
like I don’t care about you and your words.
I can see how the sentiment is being conveyed.
I can imagine the news must’ve made you dismayed.

I feel stuck in my pool of drowning hurt.
I can't seem to strip this sweat soaked shirt.
Last night I lay awake thinking of you,
and the core I’d been missing finally shone through.

I can recognize the validity of your reality,
I fondly reminisce on our past congeniality.
It feels like this can only ever be a one way street.
I can travel to meet you, but cannot remain and be meet.

I miss my family and friends that my world contained for the first ~20 years of my life.
It feels like they were stolen from me because I wasn’t born to have a wife.
That made me angry, furious with the audacity of the universe’s needlessly cruel jest.
I could tell you my story, but it feels like you would still think you know best.

I tell you this is simply the human that I am, but you feel I’m fucking up by not suffering for fam.
It frustrates me endlessly, as I helplessly cry. Instead of me being me, you would rather I die.
This isn’t a choice, it isn’t an accident, it isn’t a question of where my unwavering faith went.
It is who I am, who I will always be. It kills me to not be who I am, for that façade isn’t me.

Unwillingly I’m forced to live without you, and may die in the same condition.
I will fade from memory, not by my choice, but because those I love cannot Listen.

I know it seems like I’m purposely choosing to live the way that I exist.
There’s a sticking point that tugs at your mind, and you unknowingly resist.
The truth that lives behind your denial, and I hope you will one day see.
There is a choice made since I came out, and it isn’t being made by me.