I sat on my stoop today, which is a little rundown but has the perfect view of the neighbor’s questionable lawn art. I was eating a popsicle I found in the back of the freezer, and it was one of those blue ones that stains your lips. I caught my reflection in my phone and, for a second, I smiled at how ridiculous I looked. Blue lips, big grin, hair a mess. For a moment, I felt that old urge to fix myself up before anyone saw me. You know, tidy up the queer edges, get respectable. But I didn’t move. I just sat there, blue-mouthed and soft.
It’s funny how joy feels like something you have to sneak up on, especially when you grow up always scanning for who’s safe, who’s watching, who’s going to say something slick about the way you move or dress. My family loves me, but there’s a part of me that’s always waiting for the side-eye or the careful questions. Joy, for me, sometimes feels like wearing a loud shirt in a quiet room. But I’m learning to let it sit with me, even if it makes me stand out.
There was a breeze, and for a second I thought about texting a friend to come sit with me, but I didn’t. I let myself have that small, goofy moment alone. It felt like a tiny secret, like the first time I wore nail polish outside and nobody said anything. Sometimes the best part of being yourself is realizing you don’t have to apologize for the little things that make you happy. Even if it’s just a blue popsicle.
So, I sat there until the popsicle was gone and the sky turned a little pink. I wiped my mouth, checked my phone again, and laughed at my own face. It wasn’t a big moment, but it was mine. That was enough.