On Beginnings

I began to prefer acting like a 10 year old boy instead because I thought they wouldn’t have to pretend that they’re asleep. I thought they don’t have to play dumb when asked to sit on someone’s lap. I thought their bonds with their fathers would bloom further from mere business inquiries to negotiate and weep. I thought they would have better pals, because till now the female brain is one of the most intricately patterned dance that I have yet to tap.

I began to like being a girl every time someone asks me for a pad. And betcha, I’ve always been the type to carry a whole pack for you. With ciggies and stolen lights ready beside it too - but it’s more because from then on I grew kind of sad. And it’s the kind of sadness that wants a friend to hug longer while bantering all night long, a friend that crackles all else to static white noise - but as much as they would want to, I began to learn that people don’t have all the time in the world to watch your back.

I began to latch on to love at an age too young. Because at least it whispers consent softly into its own song. It said sorry, and texted it again too - and again, after what I would like to simply refer as my “first kiss”. The saga of awkward teeth bumps, bra unhooking conundrums, & carefully crafted-to-capture texts were distractions that would always be remembered as a bliss. Falling into its every nook hid me from them long enough, to lump all this gunk to a catapult that throws a punch when things get rough.

I began to kiss girls after learning that they were even softer. It was cute how we synced in every full moon, how we were pieces of the same crumbling ruin. Karma disguised as fate, the same way we hid as sisters. She bled us dry to bond as bitches bruised black, and blue together. We didn’t have to tip toe around or leave past curfew, we’re besties forever. But for years, I barely wore a tank top... I never felt the need to, it wasn’t sunny down where I had to fumble on my knees for her.

They began to ask me what I am, as if I’m canned soup. Labels expire at our shelves’s disposal, yet it lives on in shipwrecks to watch some dolphins hula-hoop. And I was never of these stories, never of the meds your slight of hand cost me, never of these genders because I cannot tell its touch apart. Some may have to announce a hug. But all I’m saying is that can you put your phone down? Start being a better friend for everyone, and stop trying to sell that pain - between your cleavage, within your heart -  as art.