The countless medals of gold hang from my neck, bowing to the weight of my responsibilities as a student and as a son. The stacks of certificates that were once proof of who I was meant to be are now scattered on the floor as I lie on the ground, slowly losing my sense of self, my own dreams, and perhaps—soon—my life.
In the eyes of my parents, no trophies, medals, or certificates are enough to tip the scales in which my sins lie bare, raw, and unfiltered—the sin of loving a boy. All the praises and congratulations now hold nothing to me, for I am but a mere disappointment in the eyes of the people I hold dear.
As my eyes blurred, I still saw how those eyes looked at me with such contempt and hate, my soul shattered, the thread of my sanity broke, the scars bled again—staining my life in that deep crimson hue I now seek comfort in. The pain from the cuts kept me alive to push through, the rope that ties around my neck presented an irony so bitter I can almost taste it.
Wounds heal; scars don’t. My scars healed, but the pain never left. It was now permanently etched into what was left of my so-called life. I now bear the weight of a rage that will never be quelled, and a desire to live that hangs on a measly thread.
For loving a boy bears the weight of a sin heavier than taking the life of my own.