I remember in high school I was in love with a girl. It wasn’t anything new to me because I had “openly” dated a girl before.
“Openly” of course meaning it was something that only my small group of friends “knew” about it.
“Openly” because people knew that at one point in time I liked girls, but I had dated a boy or two since the day of silence 2008, sophomore year, when despite my hardy defense against my torturers for coming out, I really did care when they asked how a girl felt to me.
But this girl was amazing.
I dared to show her my feelings, but how.
I was too afraid of the past to say it outright. “I think that girls are amazing creatures.” Not Obvious since I’m a girl myself.
“I like the way your mind works.” OK no, ignore my compliment since I’m not one of the cool kids.
So I admired her strength from afar until one day in high school Spanish 3. We had a poetry assignment. Write a poem to the person you love.
Poetry was my life, my outlet.
I knew how to communicate through written word.
I could sell myself by writing these words and maybe later talk to her.
But as I prepared this poem, perfecting it during the empty spaces in class when I finished my assignments before others.
Peer evaluation time.
Not a big deal until…
walking through the hall I heard whispers.
“Her love poems about a girl.”
The teasing started, the stares and on presentation day I stood before them proud because I had written a masterpiece.
But I looked down.
I felt shame, disappointed hate.
The conjugations were correct in every way except for the fact that the pronouns had changed.
So I hid from the world that I liked that girl.
2014 ~ Zephyr