i remove my clothes so that i can sit on my bed and think. about what being quite the young Lesbian means to me. exactly at this very moment in my life. surrounded with my things, spread across the sheets, the floor, tables, the like. at this second it's the circles and circles and circles again chorus to the "cloud on my tongue" song and i think about the way it looks like tori amos is making love to the piano when she plays. because i saw her on dave letterman a long time ago. i laugh to myself when i think "do i want to play like her?" and i try to get back to the matter at hand, Radicand. i twirl my hands just like a fake gypsy queen when i think about these things. i'm happier-than-thou when i don't have to pretend. cause it makes me feel good to release constrictions, convictions-- let go. but only to come back to the corner behind the closet door. so that our Mothers won't see us touching. i feel like i'm living a lie, pretending not to be queer when so deep within that's what i want to run, show, shout at those heterosexists. i'm crawling beneath shoes with sticky souls fighting against the little Reaper who's reaching for me, i'm running away with the violets, in my imaginary faerie land of Lesbians. all sorts. he thinks it's some kind of neat joke, my sexuality. however he knows. he's being dumb in Biology telling me, asking would i get wet if he drew me a picture of a nakid lady. i hit him hard in the arm and tell him he's dumb. i don't tell him what _does_ make me wet. i don't tell him my fascination with Her fingers, Her lips, Her tongue,
i keep my dry little mouth tight shut. he doesn't understand. along along with the rest of them jumping on the homophobe bandwagon i hope they fall off soon i'm nice not to kick and scream and shout. i'm nice but i'm afraid. i don't
kick and scream and shout because i don't want them all to call me a fucking dyke and i keep... i keep silent, yes, yes -- waiting for the time when i won't go on pretending any more, when i'm living the truth not this falsity. he still doesn't get it. that being a Lesbian, to me, at 15, is not getting horny over every girl i see (most of them disgust me along with the boys) but being in love with just one. just one. girl. nothing grabs my thighs. i sit there and stare with the intent to kill. we're going around again in the same square we've made every time that that subject came up. i'm not bringing home grandchildren. just cats. i get frustrated with parents, with peers but there are oases, places like these. the room in an empty house. i feel like
my escape. i'm still paranoid as hell that my ass is gonna get beat if i walk a little too close, if i fix Her hair -- ain't just any girl, it's the one they all joke's my girlfriend. my prom date -- yes we're the ones, the weird girls who'd show up comically, daringly hand-in-hand at Her senior prom, watch us dance in our thrift shop dresses, hold waists and have a gay old time, watch us. like we're different than the rest. (only better?) Solitude standing there watching us. solitude standing.
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