I just realized that i hate this school.
This is the loneliest place I’ve ever been.
I should never have left other artists.
They’re all crazy, but at least they’re not cold.
I miss holding your hand and I miss making stupid life plans with you. I miss how you go blonde in the summer and blush like a peach. I miss that face you make when you’re angry. When you bite your lip. When you’re nervous and shaking. When you try not to care about things because you don’t like to hurt.
I miss how you touched me like I was made of china. When you ruffled my hair and touched my cheek. I miss feeling like your kid and your mom at the same time.
I miss you being proud that I’m kinda straight-edge. I miss being proud of how not straight edge you were.
I miss you calling me your “Best girl”. I miss being your best girl.
I miss your scooter and wearing your helmet.
I miss your leather jacket and boots.
I miss it not mattering that you were the prettiest boy, because you were just Nicky, you know?
I miss going places with you and making you flower crowns and you being waaay sassier than me even though I’m the black chick and people always expect the opposite.
I’m pretty sure I will never have another friend who I like as much as I liked you. And I’m really fucking excited to see you again.
We had been together the whole night. Her boyfriend was coming over to her house so she was rushing.
It was so dark out and my heart was so fucking full.
She hugged me good bye and bent to kiss my cheek but the angle wasn’t exactly right.
That second of adjustment was the longest in the world, when we pulled back and looked at each other, then pressed our cheeks together in the airy sort of kiss socialites and drag queens give away like they’re worthless.
And when I pulled back, my fingers skimming the whippet thin curve of her ribs, our eyes met and we knew.
She knew.
She fucking knew.
and I couldn’t tell her I loved her, or pull her to me dramatically and kiss her like they do in movies because I was scared and the timing wasn’t right.
The timing would never be right.
Because I can’t snatch two people apart from each other with the brute force of my desire, and I can’t kick our friend group apart to taste a dream.
And I’m not frustrated because I know this is my choice.
But I wish I could share the depth of my sacrifice with someone else who knows her as well as I do, who can understand why I always want to hold her hand.
His name was Ryan, and he was a proper beauty.
Short and lanky, tongue tied and knock kneed.
Overt in his sexuality, svelte like a lynx,
with a freshly bitten smile and coyness that rivaled a southern belle.
He could slip between aggressive masculinity…
The scratch of his stubble on my neck and the vein that sneaked so sinuously down the front of his trousers, threatening a tantalizing glimpse of hair. Or the way his back spread to wide shoulders. Or the girth and grace of his forearms as they peeked out of his shirt.
…And androgyny.
Long lashed and full lipped, the sun played on his collarbone like gold dust. His face was like a flower opening in spring. He arched his back in pleasure and moaned like a whore making real love for the first time whenever I barely touched him.
Ryan couldn’t have been any taller than 5’8”, but he was strong and well built for his size. He’d had the misfortune of reaching his growth spurt in 8th grade and stopping right there. He was good natured about it though. He didn’t care. He knew he was pretty enough to make even straight boys adjust themselves in public, so height didn’t really matter.
…
We never kissed while we were dating, but it was oddly passionate.
He’d look at me with eyes as deep as a junkie’s and I’d blush for him.
He held my hand where ever we went.
Our hands were exactly the same size.
The one who tried to make friends and failed. The one who struggled with his sexuality. The one who was never tall enough, whose hair never laid down the way he wanted. The one with a crazy mom and a distant dad and an older brother who was never around.
The one who bit his lips so often they’d bleed.
But I was popular, so I never told him. Because I was afraid of what he’d say. What they’d say.
And I missed out.
Because he was wonderful.
Its the only thing I’ll ever regret, really.
Sometimes I catch him smiling at me with this look on his face that I have yet to properly understand.
What are you doing, lonely boy?
What are you thinking?
