by N. B., 15 (she/her)
part i: kiss
the first time i kissed a girl was when
i was seven years old.
i did it because i loved her
and she was my best friend
and she was pretty
and angels are pretty
and i was in a church
so how could i not want to kiss her?
her lips were soft and
in that moment, bathed in the rainbow light
of a stained glass window,
i forgot that what we were doing
wasn’t a part of who i was supposed to be.
after all, how could
something so beautiful be broken?
part ii: crush
sleepaway summer camp was a place without rules,
other than always wear your sunscreen—
a lesson learned the hard way—
and that the 24/7 fruit bowl was always open.
our days were spent in forests and on top of horses,
our nights were spent in cabins and open fields.
when i remember my first crush, it is through a haze of
golden cabin dust, horse sweat, and girlish laughter.
i can still feel the way
my heart fluttered every time i saw her,
before reality ripped off its wings
because liking her meant liking girls
which meant being gay
which meant that i could never have
my own fairy tale ending.
part iii: confession
when i first came out,
it was at a saccharine summertime sleepover,
only half awake as i lay talking to my friend
while the moonlight shone through the window
and the cicadas chirped their symphony.
finally i forced myself out of the closet at one a.m.,
and my friend’s silence screamed loud,
stretching across canyons,
as my stomach dropped
from falling off the cliff of safety
into the unknown valley of truth.
finally, she started clapping and told me she was happy for me,
the moment’s fear crossfading into a relief that was satiated
only by the fact that i was unaware of how many more times
i would have to have the same conversation
with people that would have reactions ranging from
“oh…ok?” to “you don’t look gay” to “please don’t have a crush on me.”
but it eventually got easier and
years later i didn’t have to force myself
to say the words i said that night,
and could instead let them fall naturally into place.
part iv: hate
the f slur is a three letter word, monosyllabic and plain,
but i’ve heard it so many different ways.
from my father
when he was reminiscing about his own high school days,
his eyes glazed over as he watched friends in the living room,
not even realizing the weight of what he’d said.
from my straight friend’s boyfriend,
who in response simply said: “i can fix him,”
even though half her oldest friends are gay
and she’d known him for a month.
from a boy that once liked me,
who spat the word at me so many times
that it faded against
the anger in his eyes and
the raw curvature of his voice,
blending into what was only
another name for me.
part v: love
my memories of the first girl i loved
come in flashes from a time long past
but never forgotten.
i can still smell her, a scent i cannot name
but one that filled her apartment.
i can still hear her cackling laugh and sharp russian accent
that made their homes in my ears.
i can still feel her hand in mine when she grabbed it as
we watched the conjuring, curled up on her couch,
my arm around her shoulders and her head against my chest.
i can still taste the strawberries we shared on valentine’s day,
as our english teacher smiled at us
and whispered something to herself about young love.
i can still see her in all her
unsuspecting beauty, secretive smiles, and cracking flaws.
she was far from perfect,
but my time spent with her was perfection,
as we rode in shopping carts
and sat on each other’s laps
and held hands on the way to orchestra
and laughed about things no one else knew.
so in the end i am glad that i am queer,
because it means i got to love her.
Washington, United States
Bridge Ink 