virtues and vices
she often could not wait for perfect moments
always jumping the gun
had difficulty with pretense
preferring to skip ahead and get down to business
she wanted people to understand her
her motivations were good - you should know this
she wanted you to know that
it was very important to her
tending towards laziness
she dreamt of leisure
it would cause her to wander off sometimes
the task at hand would take a bit longer
(though she would always complete it)
living in her head
she had a silver screen playing
a soundtrack on a loop
film noir scenes ruled conversation
people never got it
getting lost in words
she could read forever, if only
if you said a certain word a certain way
she would dream of you for weeks
she loved pronunciation and good diction
compulsion to sing at the wrong moments
in serious conversation, phrases jumped out
she would fidget to sing a lyric
she needed to finish that lyric in her head
she could not listen to anything you were saying
willing to listen
she had a sign on her forehead (“The doctor is in”)
her door was always open
she was full of empathy and good advice
as she had learned from her own mistakes
At times I am overcome, overwhelmed by my queerness and vehemently, deep-down irritated by my constant effortless passing. Part of me wants to reject anything even remotely attractive to men that I possess and yet I sense it is much of the same things that make me attractive to women. A notion consistent with this idea I’ve harbored of defining myself as bisexual or pansexual and by extension my conceptualization of all sexuality as fluidly expanding across a continuum of multidimensional and dynamic preferences tied both to individuals and to circumstances.
And still sometimes I want nothing more than to be consistently, undeniably recognized as gay. Because the truth is women’s bodies are the one thing in life I don’t want to imagine myself without. I feel more like myself when I am touching a woman than I do when I am not. I feel less like myself when men are touching me. Lately, this is part of my truth.
What I most object to, though, is the expectation or the assumption, so intense that it feels almost like a sense of entitlement, that there be some hetero in my sexuality at any given moment. But under that, even deeper, there is a crux. A crux that anyone should be entitled to anything regarding my sexuality. Indeed, that I am soley, fully, entitled to my own sexuality without exception and eternally. This has been so far from the default in my world.
I have very little clue what I am doing when it comes to claiming this. But I know this. It’s mine to claim and if I don’t someone else, fuck everybody else, will. They’ve already tried. And failed.
This is mine. I’ve got this. I have to.