This doesn't make me a lesbian
I am fourteen.
She is seventeen.
I am young and unsure.
She's young and equally unsure.
Dark, danky bathroom of a Catholic all girls school.
Oppression heavy between us.
Slowly we move.
Lips tenatively meet.
Her's are soft and satiny and taste like sugar.
Mine are chapped and cracked and taste like coffee.
She wraps an arm around my waist. I bury my fingers into her curly mane.
We pause, collective breaths held.
The footsteps become softer as they move farther away.
She kisses me again.
I kiss her back.
She drags her teeth across my lip.
My hands traces the curve of her waist.
We fit together so perfectly in that one moment. I want to cry.
It's the first time in a long time I feel accepted.
She pulls away. Stares at me and says.
"This doesn't make me a lesbian."
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything. Her words no longer knife my heart. She is beautiful. I know that boys trail after her.
I wish boys would look at me like that.
I wish girls would look at me like that too.
She kisses me once more soundly before assuring me of her sexuality one last time.
I'm standing alone.
She may not be a lesbian.
But I realize that I'm bisexual.