When people see my husband and me together, they interpret us as a straight couple, and me as a straight girl. Part of me wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but another part of me gets angry.
Angry because, with their assumption, they are erasing who I am.
Those people are erasing my queerness. Erasing the dysphoria I used to cover up with basketballs shorts, tennis shoes, and anorexia.
Erasing my first girlfriend, and all the hours I attempted to fit us together like puzzle pieces—my beautiful frustration. Those people weren’t there the night I tried the same game with another girl and got laughed at.
Those people are erasing my first relationships with men. They’re erasing how I had to learn how to love a man—my way. They are erasing the fights that ensued, of me hitting a wall of USA White Heterosexual Male. They are erasing my heated cheeks, me being put in my place, and how every time I died a little on the inside.
When they look at my husband and me, those people don’t see what makes us work. They don’t see us. They don’t see me.
They see some straight girl. With that, they burden me with a weight heavier than the one I already bear.
I could laugh until something breaks.