Revelations always seem to come to me at the oddest of times, where my heart is quietest; they arrive silent, and they crawl subtle. And before I know it, they hit me with a bite––sharp, stinging, and the startling truth reveals in such a stark manner it must be what makes revelations so shocking.
My heart still hurts when I think about that day, a year ago: We were sharing a bed and a blanket, the room was cold and we could not sleep. Outside, the wind beat against the frost-tinted windows, howling–– oddly, it reminded me of the wolf in the Three Little Pigs. She loved to talk; I loved to listen. Though, to be quite honest, she loved to talk more than I loved to listen, which made it tiring for me.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me,” she whispered. Her breath was warm against my cheek, and it only made me sleepier. It’s past midnight, I thought. I ought to close my eyes at least. “Anyways, as I was saying, soft-shell tacos aren’t real tacos; they’re burritos…”
My mind drifted off, and I pulled the blanket tighter to my body. It was winter, well into December, and I was stupid enough to wear a thin shirt to sleep. My feet were freezing, too, and with every time my toes touched hers, she hissed and scolded me for not wearing socks.
The world was silent for a moment, and we lied awake, still in the dark.
We weren’t exactly home at that time–– two weeks outside the country, two weeks from what was reality. An exchange trip; the first one we’ve ever had. It would be Christmas, I thought, when we got home. That Christmas, last year, was something else, surreal in almost every single respect, that when I try to recall it, it never does feel like it actually happened. (I don’t know how to explain it, really, but do you ever, for one moment in your life, stop within time? The world becomes dull, a faint grey color that numbs you to the bone, and voices sound murky, dipped in water. The most everyday of things don't feel quite right, though it's happening here, right now, here. My brother insists it's a hallucination, and my friends ask who’s been selling me drugs. But I suppose there is no other way to explain such a dream-like experience, so I'll keep it like this.)
“Do you miss your family?” I remember asking her later. But what makes me upset until even now was that I couldn’t remember her answer.
Maybe I was too distracted by her eyes, doe-like and bright in the dim. Her hair did smell like roses and berries, a distracting scent in its pleasantness. Her words were soft and tender, as well, that they sounded like music. Was this the first time I realized how pretty she really was? But I’m sure I had thought her pretty before–– it was more than that–– she was beautiful… and I… did I…
And then the revelation bit.
… did I like her?
My mother would kill me, is the first thing I thought.
My mother would kill me, is what I still think.
I, a girl, liked girls.
I, a girl, still like girls.
She, a girl, liked boys, and she, a girl, still likes boys.
But the problem was–– still is–– I like boys, too.
I am who I am. Always been, I like to think. But I refuse to believe a part of me that makes up who I am… And it’s fine. The guilt eats me alive, but it’s fine. Though she’s gone, new faces take her place, and that’s fine, too. But sometimes, it’s not.
A year ago, a revelation, an epiphany big enough to change my life that it did, bit me. And it left it’s mark. It doesn't heal; I never feel like it does. Maybe it's some sort of cancer, because with time, it spreads, and sometimes, it gets worse. I’m still learning. But learning whether to accept it or to hide it, I don’t know. So I pretend. Pretend that I don’t know that side of me. Keep it in the closet with the other skeletons. My mom smiles at me when I get home. I smile back.
December arrived quickly, this year, and Christmas will be soon. Christmas, the ironically warmest of holidays. The word always brings a flurry of senses into my mind, each one a bit faint like a vignette– the boisterous laughter and clinking of wine glass; the dinner party dresses in the dry-clean bags, sparkling under the plastic; the excitement stirring in your stomach five in the morning; your aunt, who squeezes the breath out of you and plants her bright red lips on your cheek; the sound of ripping wrapping paper, tearing one by one.
It would be nice, I think, to tell in front of my family on that day. My heart would be lighter, wouldn't it? Maybe there would be a chance that I don't feel even more ashamed. I'd be able to look in the mirror and say the words out loud with pride. But, in retrospect, it is a very selfish thought. If no one surrounding me would want to hear such a thing, why should I speak it?
We all know that sometimes, it is easier to lie than to tell the truth. Lies are short-lived, but they make us happy in its falseness. Lies keep ties, keeps bonds, keeps hope. Lies are sickening, and feed on our fears to keep up the illusions, to render our worlds with such delusions until we don't know what is real anymore. And the truth of that, all of that, is heartbreaking–– so heart-wrenching––, for I wish it did not tear me apart as well as it did.
But it does. (And to this day, I am still being eaten alive.)
a bit personal, haha! but yep, this is true :) but i seriously don't mind being in the closet now. hope you all liked it!