The Beginning of Life as We Know It

Why love is like smeared ink

I like writing in pen because the smeared ink serves as a good metaphor for my messy life; I like writing in pen because the ink is in itself a reason for my life's messy-ness.

I'm no philosopher, but I know a hopeless romantic when I see one - she stares back at me whenever I glance into a mirror. As unfortunate as it may be, I can't help but love love.

When I was little, I dreamt of romantic walks in moonlit parks, of bike rides and picnics woven together with conversation, of jumping in lakes with someone who wouldn't mind jumping first. Growing up I was told that I would find a nice boy, that I would come across a tall, handsome heart to complete me with everything that I wasn't. I spent too many hours daydreaming of my first kiss and the spark I would feel when my lips met their opposite.

But the story of the universe isn't written in size 12, Times New Roman font. When I was fourteen I fell hard in love and hated myself for it because this was not supposed to happen.

My first kiss was at a roller rink, in a booth in the back where we wrote our initials in sharpie afterwards. My lips didn't spark, but I could feel a thousand tiny stars being born in the space between her lips and mine.

My second kiss happened in the theater closet at school where we didn't write our initials for fear of being discovered. 

We may as well have spray painted them across the walls of the cafeteria because my non-hetero romanticism spread like a cancerous hate; what used to be me became a slut, a tease, a contagious difference. 

When I was little, I never dreamt that I'd need to get drunk to handle the world's perception of me. I never thought I'd be drowning in my own differences, forced to choose between loving for myself or for everyone else. I never thought I'd have to decide whether holding her hand was worth the heartache. 

Opposites do not always attract.