Draft of new poem (will revise soon, hopefully)

Moon Bounce

The day you become a homosexual
is quiet and boring. Maybe the sky is overcast,
maybe you forgot to put deodorant on. The realization
most likely hits you in the afternoon;
it almost always comes in the afternoon,
just as you are about to write the day off
and decide—confirm—that you are to lounge
about the rest of the day because nothing
else seems worth doing.
Once you say yes quietly, in your head,
or start to cry, or blink quickly to feign
ignorance yet again, you’re done. You
have finished a process you thought would
take the rest of the day.

Though accomplished, you
still have some doubts about the whole business.
You fear you won’t be able to love any man
the way your mother loved you, and that’s troubling
the same way architects looking at the Parthenon
feel about anything they might do. You might not even
love yourself that much. This is the punishment
you feel you deserve for seeking independence in
your loving, and that fact stares you in the face
and makes breathing feel more like panting for awhile,
the way you would feel if you lived on the moon
your whole life and suddenly had to move to Earth
and learn to get used to a higher level of gravity.