Twenty-One Wilted Roses

We didn't know better than to tell her she was a dyke.

Our parents said that it was wrong.

The president said it was wrong.

Every person we knew said it was wrong to have her as a daughter.

They called her a whore.

A slut.

A filthy piece of trash.

A spawn of the devil.

She was queer.

But she was our daughter.

We had no right to tell her we hated her.

We had no right to tell her we wanted her dead.

It wasn't her fault she was the way she was.

She was still our daughter.

We still loved her.

We still wish she was alive right now.

We wish we could have stopped her.

That one August day,

She picked up the rope.

And hung herself in her room.

We should have stopped her.

But we didn't.

We didn't believe her when she said she hated life.

We didn't believe her when she said she was harassed.

We didn't believe her even when she said her girlfriend was sent away.

She was only fourteen.

But once she hung herself,

We believed her.

We became something else that night.

We were filled with regret and grief.

We are all people.

We are all humans.

We are all full of love.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.