I was in sixth grade. She was a rose. I was a dandelion. And she would never like me because I'm a girl too.
I didn't even know what a lesbian was but I remember how bitter her voice sounded when she called me one. I just said I really liked her. And her voice bit me like a snake after I said that. The poison of that phrase haunts me to this day.
Ew you're a lesbian!
Every day of my school life I felt my peers glaring at me and heard their whispers. I was forced to the corner of the locker room for gym and eventually to the bathroom. I worked alone on all group projects. Then I finally graduated out of that hell hole. I went to college and made art. Sensual art. I drew women, beautiful women. Alas, none were as beautiful as my rose. I painted two beautiful roses over a pair of full breasts and hung it on my wall as a reminder that she will always be my first love. No mater how much her words stung. I create art for people who are finding themselves. For people who were rejected by their love. I make art for her, my rose.
