I’ve been falling in love with girls since before I even knew falling in love with girls was something I was allowed to do. Sometimes, these girls’ lives would intertwine with mine for just a fractional part of our lives - the girl I met in the park once when I was eight, with her long blonde hair, for example, or the girl with the stunning blue eyes at the week long gymnastics camp I’d gone to that summer. Other times, they’d be in my life for the long haul, like the girl who was in my class the whole way through primary school who made my heart beat faster every time I asked for one of her felt pens. Or the girl in Mrs C’s class with the smile I couldn’t help but stare at every time I looked at yearbook photos. Now and again, they’d be sort of inbetween - my violin teacher, who I saw once a week who sort of smelled like jasmine, or the girl in the year above me who always wore Converse to school even though we weren’t allowed. When she graduated a year before me, I missed seeing her brown curls bounce as she walked into assembly every Wednesday morning.
But yet, this love never seemed like love. “What was love?” I asked myself when I was ten or eleven. Love was what I felt for the boy in the pantomime I’d gone to see who was decently attractive and around my age. Love was what I felt for the boy in my form class in first year. “I could love him,” I told myself as the sunlight hit his face one Tuesday morning in Home Ec. Love was what I felt for boys, what I’d have felt for my boyfriend had I been pretty enough to get one, what I’d feel for my husband when I got older. But I never really did feel it.
What if love to me was what I felt for the girl who sat across from me in Biology who was so beautiful I became “jealous” of her? What if love was why I couldn’t help staring at that third year girl every Thursday afternoon as we passed in the corridor before Maths? What if love to me meant girls?
I mean, I had pondered why girls had to love smelly old boys in the canteen line aged six. Eventually, I acknowledged that my brief infatuation with other girls was, in fact, infatuation.
From my violin teacher, the girl in the park, the girl in my class when I was seven, eight, nine, to the waitress at that restaurant in town who said my shirt was cute last week. To the girl who’d said my eyes were pretty on Instagram on Wednesday. To the girl in the changing rooms before netball practice yesterday who said my long hair was beautiful.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving girls. And yeah, sometimes it shocks me how the strength of my love didn’t break through the secrets and the lies and gravitate me towards that realisation sooner, but I guess the only thing that can bury love that strong is hate even stronger.
— random thoughts I had at 3am some night last week