He offered me a free bottle
Cheap red.
Left on his porch
Late in the evening.

No strings attached.
He worked for the wine company,
Or maybe a bar.

We wouldn’t have to meet
Face to face.
He would never know my
Name.
And I,
His.

I circled the block
My screaming muffler
Machine gun fire
In the quiet night,
And decided against it.

Against the teenage alcohol
The lack of witnesses,
The exchanging of favors.

I was an adolescent fantasy
And nothing more.
A penis attached to
A profile picture
And a fake name.

As if my pseudonym
Could act as a shell company
For my trauma
For what the older men
On the internet, demanded
Of me.

Only if by never giving away
My identity,
My day-to-day self
Would never have to face the truth,

My parents would not shed any tears.

My future husband would be none
The wiser.

But he is me,
And I am him.
All my fake letters and numbers,
Names and ages,
A part of me
That leaves me sick.

The taking of a child
That I played a
Role in.

My own innocence
Disposed of like
One of those vodka
Bottles
I craved so much.

A glaring
Reflection
In a mirror

Fifteen years
Later.

– Mitchell Warnken

Author’s Note: I wrote this poem as a response to the song “Caleb” by Kevin Atwater. I wanted in a way not only to say “me, too,” but also to say that our experiences with seeking intimacy as LGBT are not isolated to the American South or even to the greater community, but to our society as a whole. I wanted to create something that made the intangible feeling of growing up wanting to feel loved, by anyone, tangible.