Dear Creator of the Universe,

I once believed you were all-knowing. I didn’t think life was worth the pain without you. I also was once afraid of you. I was afraid of what you would do if I told you I resented my father. I was afraid of how you would react if my life didn’t follow your plan. I was afraid of what you would do to my family when my parents decided to sever the great tie of a wedding band. But most of all, I was afraid of the things you would do to me if I told you I was a homosexual.

I thought you hated me. I think you hate me. But I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m afraid for your followers and those who make it their mission to create hate around your love. Why does your love feel like constant shame within my skin? What went wrong between your love and the buildings supposed to teach it? Trying to prove that you love me is like proving dinosaurs exist. Sure, we have proof to back up the existence of dinosaurs and that every time someone says “The creator of the universe doesn’t love you” it’s based on a fallacy. But just like the dinosaurs, no one has heard your reasoning in person. No one truly knows what you are thinking about certain people.

I prayed every night for you to fix me. I thought if you wanted to love me, I would have to change the core foundation of my life. But as the nights progressed and my prayers got tearful, I thought it had worked. I thought you finally cleansed me of the burden I was made out to be. I didn’t think about women for a while. I didn’t think about men for a while. I was a clean slate. Something new and shiny that you could carve your mission into. I felt free for a moment. Exonerated of the feelings everyone was trying to tell me to compress. But not everything lasts forever, it couldn’t keep me down indefinitely. Instead of feeling free, I started to feel contained and trapped. It registered that I wasn’t free from the love I wanted to pursue, I was brainwashed into thinking that the love warping through my body was repugnant. I wanted so badly to be clean that I convinced myself I was. I wanted you to be able to love me for who I was and not for who I was intimate with. I didn’t want my sexuality to be the thing you hated me for. I thought you created me for the person I am. For all the people I love. I felt guilty that I hid under your umbrella. For all the people I deceived. I feel guilty that I let you deceive me.

I don’t know much about life, and I’m not too certain about you yet, but if you do love me, I wish you would just tell me.

Love or dread,
A homosexual.