I want to write sweet words to you. Serenade your soul so that it’ll dance with mine. Hold my waist and twirl me around a ballroom like I used to imagine when I was seven and my mother sighed and told me I couldn’t wear a dress to school. That seven year old girl didn’t know the difference between loving a man or a woman. She liked both the smell of cologne and the thought of tucking the stem of a rose behind a woman’s ear. Short hair, long hair; cuff-links, lace trim; oxfords, heels; I know the difference, but not why it matters? So much of my identity depends on me acting like everything I wanted isn’t still what I dream about when I allow myself to be the whimsical, idealistic girl whose heart beats for life and not just survival. But I don’t want to be angry and I don’t want to be bitter. I want to fit in and be normal. Controversy wasn’t something I signed up for, it drafted me, told me that I had to fight for my freedom. Told me there was someone worth fighting for, and I’d never be with them, not if I wasn’t brave.
Maybe I’m not brave, though, I’m so damn tired of being controversial.
But I still want to pretend that we’re Disney princesses, even if they’ll never cast us. Live our life, desperately cling to every second, even though people want to end it. Let your alto harmonise with my soprano, create a song that will make people weep because their bodies can’t contain the sheer love we feel for each other. And it won’t be easy, because this world cast us as warriors, but some of the best victories are won in private. I want both the white picket fence and to hold your hand on airplanes. We’ll take pictures in front of the seven wonders of the world and on ocean blue beaches. I want to be so happy with you, because this was always the point. The only thing that ever fucking mattered to me. I didn’t sign up for the fight, I signed up for the love.
Maybe that was never meant for us, too much estrogen and not enough Y chromosomes, but I’ll take what I can get. Let you kiss me under the moonlight as the breeze runs through our hair. And we’ll smile at each other after, not feeling the repentance people pray for us to find, because nothing has ever felt less wrong. Just in case, though. Touch me like our bodies were created to sin, because apparently our hearts were. Hold me strongly enough to change my center of gravity. Love me both purely and sensually. Give me all of you and I’ll give you all of me, and let’s die together with the conviction that this is worth our condemnation. But I’ll be honest, my darling.
There’s not a lot I’m sure of, but I think we’re going to Eden.