Thirteen. Thirteen. Fifteen. Eighteen.

The ages of the four boys who committed suicide in the last week because they were bullied for being gay.

Lets all take a minute to just absorb that, ok?
What were you doing when you were 13? I was still secretly playing with dolls in my closet. I hadn't hit puberty yet. I was a 4'11 baby, I loved reading Harry Potter and watching cartoons. I haven't yet held hands with a boy.

Fifteen: This year I will have my first kiss. I will rebel against my parents. I will go to my first rock concert, and afterwards, I will jump into a fountain with a bunch of other kids. I perform on stage at the Globe Theatre.

Eighteen: I haven't yet met the boy I will spend the rest of my life with. I will try sushi for the first time. I will get my first job. I well get accepted into university. My wisdom teeth haven't grown in yet. I am still hopelessly young.


These are our babies. None of these boys will grow up, grow older. None of them will move into their own places, experience life as an adult. None of them will know the joy of getting married or bringing up children. None of them will fulfill a lifetime of small and large achievements. None of them will hug their mothers on christmas day, or open another birthday present. None of them will travel the world. None of them was old enough to drink.

These are our babies. They were somebodies babies. Now they are sitting in some refrigerated container, waiting to be buried, or cremated. Waiting for the last suit they will ever wear, the last pair of shoes their parents will ever buy them, most of them before they've even grown to their full size. Tiny boys in tiny boxes, hounded to the point of taking their own lives because some fucking prick decided that his desire to taunt, tease, ridicule and humiliate over-rode these boys' right to LIVE. To EXIST.

I can't even understand this.