Kissing in Paris.

So I called her cat and she called me kitten. And at the beginning of it all I was convinced she was the most annoying person on earth, with her clingy smiles and jumpers like Mabel off gravity falls. And of course we became friends. And we had competitions of who could fly off the swing the highest. And I honestly felt on top of the world like an angel. She was right beside me and then we hit the ground with a force, spitting bark from the back of our mouths. We were the ones who rebelled against the swelling of our hips and chests, who refused to cover our pimples and red-cherub cheeks with a makeup mask. But eventually we joined the other, though still cat and kitten at heart.

I wrote a comic book with her. She went away and sent me a postcard every day. I still have them, all 28 collecting dust and memories that make me cough when I read them. And I wronged her. I really did. I fell in love with her and she asked me out, in the midst of flowers and confusion. I was like a happy ghost with an iron heart. I knew it was too good to be true so I fulfilled my own prophecy. When he made me kiss him like the puppet I was, I screamed into his mouth that I loved her. And he never heard, just swallowed it all up, mouth pressing fiercer to the twisted climax when she walked in and left straight after. Shock was grating at my bones as I ran outside and cried. I was a surface victim but I knew it was all my fault so I bled.

And I wrote her a postcard. I covered it in code and messages telling her of my love. And she replied with a message on the back of an unsolved puzzle. My heart. And I have never solved it. She thinks it’s because I can’t do puzzles but really, it’s because I’m too scared to hear what she said. I am comfortable in my sexuality. I love souls, not bodies. And yet, I can never shake the lack of closure. It curls around my mouth when I’m falling asleep. It makes me miss the days we spent in Paris, kissing in my mind.