I’m eleven years old when I see two girls kissing in the rain in the middle of a music video. It feels like those times where there is a couple having sex in a movie and you have to pretend nothing is going on or your parents will know that you know what sex is. Every time my mom walks into the room I have this strong need to look away, to change the channel as quick as I can before she thinks I’m like them.
I don’t even know where I learned that this was wrong.
I’m fourteen years old when Marissa Cooper kisses a girl on The O.C. I’m alone in my parents’ bed, as I always do to watch my favorite shows on TV. I hope no one comes in. I hope this awful feeling inside of me goes away.
And I breathe with relief when it’s just a phase.
I’m eighteen years old when my friend comes out to me. It’s messy and we fight and I look away from the screen because I don’t want to see this thing living inside of me too. I dream of kissing her mouth in a dark beach where nothing else exists and this isn’t just a malfunction in my system.
She still thinks I hate her for it.
I’m twenty-two years old when Carmilla and Laura kiss after thirty-six episodes of my heart beating so fast and my smile hurting my face. The words grow inside of me like flowers in a rose garden and I know I’m not ever going back to denial.
They live in every word I write from then on.
I’m twenty-three when Sophie Winters is in love with her best friend and they have angry sex on her bedroom floor. My eyes are wide and my hands are shaking as I flip the pages of the book and I realize girls can have this too.
My body never stops burning anymore.
I’m twenty-four when a girl finally asks me if I want to kiss her. My brain stops functioning and I pace for hours in my bedroom because this just can’t be real. She asks all the right questions and touches me like I’m not the devil and I start to believe I’m not made of stone.
We let go and our goodbye tastes like new beginnings.
I’m twenty-five years old and every girl in the world is so beautiful and so far away from me. I have labels attached in the wrong places and everything feels like too much. My heart aches for something that I can’t explain and my body just implores for the relief that I can’t ever reach.
And in the end, I can’t even say it out loud.
But what I do know is that I won’t ever let people make me believe anymore that my love for women is something to be ashamed. I’ll write and read about their bodies and minds and all the ways you can be free by the use of a look or the touch of a hand. Because in a world that tells you that women are made for men’s desires what does it means to be the one who desires them too?
I won’t be the one to look away once again.
I’ll stare at the abyss and jump without fear because there is not better battle than the one you fight for yourself.
And I’m starting right here.
About the Author:
M. Hollis is a Brazilian YA/NA writer with a focus on F/F stories. When she isn’t scrolling around her social media accounts or reading lots of femslash fanfiction, you’ll find her crying about female characters and baking cookies. She wants to write many stories for women who love other women with happy endings and hopeful beginnings.
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