The Prettiest Star

by Carter Sickels

I get why my parents don’t want anyone to know. In Chester, people think we don’t deserve to live, but it’s not just Chester that thinks this way—it’s most of America. Even in New York you feel the disgust grinding you into the dirt. God is taking care of the homosexuals. On bad days, the worst days, you wonder if they’re right. The politicians, the pundits, the preachers. Tattoo them, quarantine them, let them die in the streets. In America, 15,000 people have died of AIDS, and there are almost twice as many infected. President Reagan still has not uttered the word. Queers, drug addicts, Haitians—we’re the expendable, the scourge. They want us gone. When we die, Christians and Republicans must go wild with applause—that’s what it feels like. Sometimes I burn with anger, and I want to fight, to be seen. But most of the time, I’m just scared or tired. On my worst days, I feel the shame most of the world wants me to feel. I understand why my parents don’t want people to know, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.