Are you proud of me?

Someone once asked me,
Are you getting married?
I told them I didn't know.
They asked if it was because I didn't want to get married.

No.
It's not that.


I dread the day I wed.
Not cause of my man.
Not cause of my friends.
Not cause of all the people that might dissapprove.
It's not that.

I don't care about protestors.
I don't care about angry church leaders.
I don't care about homophobes, bashers or haters.
It's not that.

You see, I love my parents.
And they love me.
I told them I was gay.
They were ok with it.

But sometimes I can see that in their eyes
they just don't want it to be true.
We never talk about who I like, or who he was
Or what bar I went to on the weekend.

We don't talk about my future,
How I want children
A house with that white picket fence
With a park, a playground, and big blue skies.

It's their eyes.
Full of dissappointment.
When I look at their faces
Right before the altar.
Their fake smiles
Hiding the pain
They have in their hearts.

I fear, looking at them holding his hand
I fear, seeing them clap for me as we kiss, yet not meaning it
I fear, they will love me less
I fear, they will always hate him
I fear, to see the dissappointment in their eyes.

Again.