Aromantic Awareness Poem

Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week took place this year from February 18–24, and it represents the aromantic community (meaning someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction to others), the struggles they face, and the many queer identities that make up the spectrum. In honor of that, this poem was written to highlight the struggles aromantics face and to celebrate the joy we feel with who we are. 

The moment our eyes flutter open for the very first time and we’re

introduced to the great, big, wonderful world that surrounds us, 

we’re already writing our story. 

Our pages are blank, the thought of placing ink on the paper seems horrifying, but luckily, 

we have plot guides that the world urges writers to follow: 

savor your youth, 

find your character alongside your best friends, 

breathe in the scent of life as you set out on your own, 

start a family, and above all else, 

find true love. 

Most look at these guides and smile upon them, 

never hesitating to write those milestones. 

It makes them feel secure, familiar

like the fairytales they would hear before slipping off 

into the siren song of sleep. 

It’s the magic of the fantasy that compels authors to reach for that kind of story. 

Everyone wants that spark of true love’s kiss.

While everyone else's eyes opened to the wonder of love, 

mine were always closed. 

Blinded by fear coursing my veins, knowing everyone 

at my lunch table shared heart eyes for a boy in their classes. 

Their gossips about the gorgeous chestnut curls that framed his face 

fell deaf on my ears. 

I couldn’t fathom those feelings. 

My cliché lovestruck facade plastered with cracks.

The relief when confession notes I’d hesitantly pass to the boy 

at the front of the class always came back rejected.

I never truly liked him.

I was falling behind in my tween years. 

Nausea sitting in my gut. 

Waiting for the day I’d have a crush, 

when I’d crack the code. 

The day I finally did, the day there was finally a word for it, 

my tears caused the ink on my pages to run. 

I’d wish upon a shooting star that I was wrong, that one day I’d be able to feel 

the swarm of butterflies in my tummy when I met someone’s gaze. 

I couldn’t accept this is where my story was going. 

Until I did.

I write a fairytale where I’m okay not being struck by Cupid’s arrow.

Older now, I’m a character who didn’t need a true love’s kiss or a fancy white dress 

or a knight to save me from a dragon. 

I’m a character who isn’t capable of feeling the flame of romance, 

and that’s okay. 

That doesn't make me the Tin Man without a heart 

or the Wicked Witch of the West, 

that makes me who I am. 

My story doesn’t need a picture-perfect romance. 

I’m full of love; 

I love my family, I love my friends, I love myself 

and the life I live in this moment. 

I love that I am unapologetically me. 

I love that I defy society’s expectations of what love is supposed to be. 

I’m not behind, just on a different path. 

Cupid’s arrow may have missed me, but finally, 

for the first time in a long time, my eyes are open.

I can see who I am, and I’m okay with that.