Her

I can just imagine
My head on your shoulder
Relishing your scent
The brushing of my lips on your collarbone
Your hair tickling my face
That first imploring kiss
Tongues searching, soothing, savoring
The heat of your skin
Bringing sweat to my brow
Fingers tracing every curve
Wetness, burning loins- a miserable merciless master
Hands hesitant, hopeful, hungering
Leaving finger prints on the way
To ecstasy

Me of Little Faith

I used to be such a good Catholic. I didn't pray the rosary everyday, but I felt guilty about it like every other good Catholic. It's not so much that I don't believe in God anymore, it's just that everything associated with religion has stripped me of all my positive energy. My anger at the followers of the religion who told me in the eighth grade that a friend of mine was going to hell for loving another woman slowly became directed towards God.

Does He/She still love me? Am I expected to overcome this? Everything in my logic self is screaming that no, it doesn't make sense. Why would this Someone who loves me instill these desires in my heart, if He/She intended me to submit to society's heterocentric values?

Yet, my heart still desires a relationship with this Being, who may or may not hold me to the expectations that Catholics/society holds me to.

"Do you think any less of me?" my friend asked when she came out to me.

"No, because I love you. It doesn't even matter. Just don't hit on me," I remember saying.

"Uh, don't worry. I won't." Frankly, I was a little insulted.

God, if I don't hit on You, will You still love me?

Endings

Forget happy endings. What about just plain old endings?

I crave endings like rain in 100-degree weather. It's not that I'm suicidal: I'm not. It's more that I wish I had control over time. Like I could just say "stop" and the world would obey: and I could just sit and quench my thirst for silence.

But even silence isn't all that comforting anymore.

I feel tired and empty. I don't know how to escape. It's troubling that I still have so much life to live.

Flashback

In the seventh grade, I remember telling a girl that she was beautiful and that if I were a guy, I would date her. And she was beautiful. Golden brown hair, bright green eyes, contagious laugh. Of course, within seconds, the entire school started calling me a lesbian: it was considered "name-calling" because I was incredibly insulted.

Even if it's what you are, to be labeled as "other" by your peers, especially during a time when you want nothing more than to be invisible. For the fat girl to be invisible was such a huge accomplishment. The only attention I remember getting from my peers focused solely on my boobs- the fat in my chest.

For the fat girl to be heard was equally unattainable. I played Edmund in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in 7th grade; I wasn't even pretty enough to play the wicked witch. I was onstage, mocking myself, destroying the lives of people I loved for a dessert that would love me back. I pushed people away, kept things superficial, lying to everyone and myself. But at least as Edmund, I could play up the angle of being sexually attracted to the witch: if you have a dick, that's allowed.

Today, I still don't like the label "lesbian." Just call me a big ol' "dyke."