I don’t know how to feel. All I want to do is lay down on my floor, curled into myself, crying. So I did that, but it became boring. No one ever take about how boring sadness is. I want to do things, but I don’t want to do things. I want to change, but stagnancy rests in my veins. Change bites at my heels, but I can’t change. I want to SO bad, but I can’t. Everywhere advice has started resonating with me. I know I need a change. I know I need TO change, but my efforts have gone nowhere. Why can’t I take control of my life?
In case you wondered why there is a community, it’s because it’s isolating.
You just want to talk about it with someone, but they couldn’t care less. They just move on, treat your identity like an admission that you like to swim or that you’re allergic to strawberries.
On one hand it’s nice-not to be defined by your orientation. It’s nice for it to be treated as normal, but on the other hand, I can’t talk about how it affects my life.
It means that there is a chance I will never get to experience a romantic relationship in the same way as other people.
No it’s okay. You’ll find someone.
It means that I’m afraid that people will treat me differently once they find out.
Well screw them.
Well maybe I don’t want to limit my human connections to the socially educated. Maybe I don’t want to discount people because of their sometimes well meaning ignorance.
It means that people make assumptions.
Well, what does it matter what they think?
Well some people will discourage other people from connecting with me romantically because they assume I’m not into that sort of thing. Some people will be confused when I’m excitable and flirty and ship everything. Some people will be surprised by my humanness-think of me as subhuman. Cold, emotionless, be less likely to rent an apartment out to me, be less likely to be my friend if the studies are true. Or superhuman, somehow able to resist human impulses, the perfect modum of control.
Don’t you want that? To be thought of as superhuman?
I know enough to know that I am not better than anyone. And this isn’t where I would want to be.
Shouldn’t you be proud?
I am proud, but I’m afraid.
I can see the sleepness nights stretched across my brow and hanging like stars beneath the ocean moon of my eyes. The corn rows of my eyebrows still young, questioning everything. The corners of my mouth hanging with concern. Little doe spots sprinkling across the ridges of my nose and the plains of my cheeks. Hair splaying out like wispy sunbursts across the expanse of my wintery and weathered skin, beaten by the winds of change and Moonfull nights and a different sky than the one I’ve lived under. The stars ever so slightly angled differently that throws my life askew, toppling and rippling and hoping for replete.
I see amber in your eyes and gold running through your veins. A thousand lion skins stretch from your smiles and your touch, the warmth of the summer sun. Golden hearths contain your joy. My summer heat, confusion as the air grows cooler, as you step away for minutes or hours what once seemed clear is muddled, the stirring of bottommuck sand from the depths of the deep to cover the clarity of the brook.
Two of you, two so different yet two lion hearts and summer skies. Two Great confusions lighting my wintery way. And one from the darkness of distance ghosting warmth across my cheekbones. I don’t know how to feel. Yet I feel.