on growing up under the male gaze

or, on how habits are not so easy to break

The problem with knowing boys, I have discovered, is that no matter how much we may like each other, no matter how much we display it, I always feel like his dirty little secret. He kisses me before, and I taste dessert and honey. He kisses me after, and I taste ash and sin.

It does not matter if his eyes brim with hope or if he kisses me like his favorite sweet. It does not matter if he listens and responds and understands. The moment I invite him to my bed, I cannot think of him as anything but an invader.

I cannot do anything except surrender.