As always, she’s smiling when you see her, radiating a light you wished you possessed. She bends slightly to whisper something into the ear of a girl seated next to her. They both burst out laughing and lean in close as though to ensure no one else hears their conversation.
“They’re adorable,” your friend sighs, undoubtedly staring at the two.
“They seem close, I guess,” you say, feigning indifference to cover the unidentifiable burning you felt on the inside.
Your friend rolls her eyes and says “Yeah, close for a couple.”
The burning inside you does not intensify, instead, it’s replaced by a sinking feeling. You cannot identify the source of the tear you hastily wiped away. You cry yourself to sleep that night but do not understand why; do not let yourself understand why.
You spiral downwards from that point. Losing control of your emotions, you slip deeper and deeper into your own head. You do not admit the fact that you feel anything for her. Still, whenever you see them together your heart aches for what you could never have. You refuse to put a name to these feelings. You refuse to admit to yourself that you did want her. Her. You react awfully to every act of kindness she shows you. You brush off every attempted conversation, rip up every letter of encouragement, throw out every little gift she got you. You saw this as an effort to cure yourself of these emotions. Still, you cried most nights. A year after, they broke up. You laughed when you heard the news. You were too tired of the pain to be hopeful.
She kissed you. You screamed at her for forcing you to realize the truth of your feelings.
You’re dating now. You still cry every night. You cry over the knowledge that you want to be with her for the rest of your life. You cry over the knowledge that you can’t be with her for the rest of your life. When desire numbed your senses, you gave into the longing that had enveloped you for so long now. You allowed yourself to feel her body, slick and hot, against yours. Your guilt did not allow you to feel pleasure.
She left her scent on your clothes, on your bed sheet. You could not sleep, the scent is sickening. You stripped yourself and the bed in a fit of rage, throwing whatever you could, breaking whatever wasn’t valuable. You only stopped when you couldn’t see for your tears had clouded your vision. Her scent only grew stronger.
You can no longer look at your family members in the eye. The knowledge that you could not be the daughter they always wanted was too much to handle. You wanted to carve your sin out of you. The closest you got was when you drew a blade over your skin, parting the skin the way the prophets you so dedicatedly revered parted seas.
You hoped your penance would be enough sacrifice for salvation. It never was.
About the Writer
Moon is a Nigerian girl from Lagos, who has lived most of her life internally homophobic considering where she was raised. She has lived with signs of her sexuality for a long time and has simply dismissed it. Now, she has fallen in love with a girl that makes her feel far more than she ever has. She is manic depressive and struggles turbulently with accepting her sexuality. This is a biographical piece recounting her recent struggles with her mental health and sexuality.