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I will not say here, 'no more happy ends.'

I won't presume to undercut the need

For stories of queer heroes of queer worlds

Where homophobia has never been.

For gods of sunset, moon, and winter know

That if no tale but such as these were told

From now until the day I breathe my last

It would not serve to mend the deficit.

Let tales of worlds where homophobia

Is not, has never been, and never will,

Be told. Let them abound and multiply,

And fill the too-straight world, and it subdue.

Let prince love prince, let princess princess save.

Let warriors own of no gender but war.

For each tale, after all, will be the one

For someone, that first opens up their eyes

To see as in a darkling glass, themselves.

And yet. If tales but such as these were told

From now until the day I breathe my last

And none besides, why, I would breathe my last

Believing that the life that I had lived

Was not a life, and all the love I'd loved

Was not entirely love. How could they be?

The lives and loves of all my heroes would

Be lived and loved in worlds too bright for me.

Too just. Too perfect. Far too welcoming.

Their shining worlds where homophobia

Is not, has never been, and never will,

Could have no place in them for such as I.

Behold my history, all dour disowned.

Behold my heart, by sword of sorrow pierced.

This is my body, old before its time.

This is my blood, which I cannot donate.

As in the days when out of Hamelin town

The sons and daughters, by unearthly song,

Were led on paths unnamable and strange

Into a paradise of innocence,

Save one. Just so my soul is long since lamed

By grieving for my griefs, by growing in

Closets too cramped to ever stand up straight.

I cannot walk as fast. I reach the gates

Of Bergentruckung only just in time

To see the shining world where all my woes

At weary last be laid to weary rest

Before the door shuts fast. And I alone

Escape to tell thee: aye, I yet remain

In this same world where homophobia

Is yet, has ever been, and likely shall

Outlast the day I draw my final breath.

So let there too be stories of this world.

Let love admit of base impurities.

Let prince love prince, but furtively, at some

Discreet motel room at the county line.

Let princess save princess, from homelessness

In flight from foul conversion therapy.

Let warrior own of no gender but war

Against the bulk of laws heteronorm.

And aye, let tales of perfect other worlds

Be told as well. We have yet need of them.

Alongside tragedy. Alongside grief.

Alongside seedy and outright unchaste.

Alongside bitter, dark, unhealthy, grim:

Not to be emulated, yet still seen

And recognized. For which of us have not

Beheld such, in a dark glass, in ourselves?

Yes, tell me stories of how love should be,

Should have been always, and has never been.

But tell me also tales of how love is.

And how perforce it likely will remain.

Let not it be that all our stories are

Of worlds where homophobia is not,

For none of us will ever live in one.

I do not say here 'no more happy ends.'

I rather say 'put some within my reach.'

For, gods of sunset, moon, and winter know,

That reach is not long as it should be.