we learned how to hide it, how to chomp back the bit of girls, braid the secret deep in our hair and leave it. we doodled two girls kissing and gave one short hair. made stick figures with only one in a dress. we tried not to stare too long at the tv when she was pretty because we sensed innately something was wrong with us. we watched the scene where she’s laughing maybe sixteen times before we felt creepy. we sang the lyrics loudly and in public changed the pronouns. in private we wrote our own songs that were tuneless and featured only her name ached out in music. we danced around the subject, we said, “ew that’s gay,” we identified as ally sometimes but wrinkled our nose if everyone else did in the room. and we were lonely. and terrified. like lying to a jury. like if we messed up for a moment we would be sentenced to the guillotine. on private blogs we wrote poems about the cloud girls we wished we could kiss, we google-searched “how to know if i’m a lesbian”, we made fake yahoo accounts to ask why looking at her made our stomach sick. in public it was different, the art of “no i don’t have a boyfriend,” or even worse, the art of pretending to find boys remotely interesting. the savage lies that curled into us until even we no longer knew what was fact and what was fiction. and that bitter anger we saw in others - always at ourselves, and our failures.
Hey Jimin! I was wondering if you still dance as well as run the flower shop?