melancholy

A thank you letter to the man who showed me that my sexuality is not a sin

Painting by  Marc Taschowsky

Painting by Marc Taschowsky

I met a boy,
At a local rock show.
I knew his name, i knew his family, i knew his smile,
But not once did we speak.
I craved to hear my name fall upon hos lips but until that night i had never been so blessed.
I was at the show with another guy but,
Time just seemed to stop around this one,
Like the earth was slowing just so i could breathe- every milisecond our worlds colided and,
In that moment i knew.

Months flew by like swallows and the sparks when his fingertips brushed against mine became addictive and infectious.
He held me like my skin was porcelain but made me feel unshatterable, unbreakable.
He became not my shield,
Nor my sword,
But instead taught me how to craft my own from the ore of fear wieghing down my shoulders.

He showed me that it is okay to want sex,
That there was no need to suck in,
To shave skin,
To be stick thin,
That my sexuality is not a sin but an extension of myself
That I can finally control.

He opened the door and wrapped himself around me like a saftey net at 3am,
When i was too scared to sleep in my own house alone,
Or my own thoughts became so deafening,
Sleep depriving,
Stealing,
That I couldnt tell the difference between awake and asleep.

He was my crutch when I could not stand on my own,
When the weight of the world buckled my knees,
For so long I thought he was my cure,
A breath of fresh air when all i could breathe was smoke,
He was the smoke,
He was poisonous.

I still catch myself dreaming about the time we once had,
Catching myself falling for the idea that maybe one day
Our hearts will intertwine again,
Moulding old memories with shaky hands,
into forged future hopes,
Painting kisses in watercolour and affection in
Jackson pollock-esque splatters
Across the black and white time we had together,

I wonder about his new love,
I ponder if he sees a glimpse of me in her shadow,
If her hands fit better in his than mine did,
If she holds him like I used to.

In the end, the poisonous boy got away with my heart,
Left it in a box somewhere,
On a shelf,
Gathering dust,
Because to destroy it would imply that he cared,
But no,
He just forgot.

Submitted to ArtParasites by Sinead Whyte