An All American Essay by: An Anti-American Girl

It's not that I don't like men. But. I don't like men.

When I was younger it was a maybe because I had never really dated a man before. But now that I have and that emotionless void is filled with sorrow, maybe fear-I see that I don't like them. And that's fine. So, I'm gay. Big deal. But now that I know that I can finally be me and even though it terrifies me that I'll, one day, be coming out completely to my parents I'm sure I'll make it through. She can't say-no one can say that I didn't try. I did. But...There's nothing there to try and feel. Instead of masculine and harsh I'd rather feel the curves another woman against my own, the way her perfume lingers like the soft bred kiss from her lips. I'm talking about some one in particular, she knows who she is. My country doesn't like that.

I'd rather be alone than be with a man. I know. I'm not...Perfect. But honestly? I can't tell the difference.

I can't tell the difference between being a freak and being "normal" because being "normal" is being a freak to everyone else. I've always been odd and maybe that's because I'd rather wear jeans and sneakers than a dress to prom. Or. Maybe it's because I love to hate my hair. Or how I don't eat and how I cut emotionlessly.

I can't tell the difference between needing food and wanting food. Between not liking guys and being afraid of them. Between being a teenager and just drinking pain away. Between being selfish and caring about myself. Between loving and hating. Between being me. And. Being that other me.

I remember when America gave me pills. Then gave me friends that helped me get more pills and painkillers, showed me how to crush them and snort them through a straw.

And how before that America let some girl I loved penatrate me with her fingers and tongue and hands-over and over everytime I slept over. And I remember when I almost forgot that.

And how that made me want to die. How it showed me what cutting was, how to tie a noose and set up a camera to show the world.

America showed me what scars meant. But it also helped me write. Though. I don't know happyness, what it really means to be HAPPY. Like how no one will care if I suddenly stop talking or end up... Dead. Away. Gone.

I want silence. Not death. Just-for people to be quiet. So I can think. Maybe cry. So I don't have to hear them. Hear them-judging me.

So don't sit there and lie; telling me my country loves me.