This is a prose poem about how much pain questioning my sexuality has caused me. I am and have been comfortable with identifying as a bisexual woman, but recently I’ve begun to question who I am and it one of the hardest experiences of my life.
I don’t know where to begin. Burning tears against salty skin. The never ending void seen from the bed. An internal non-stop pounding. Poisoned words fabricated from nothing. I can’t like her. I can’t like him. Do I even like anyone at all? The guilt of wondering what another girl’s lips would feel like on my own. The confusion of desire. He would hold my hand and brush my hair behind my ear. She’d call me beautiful. I’d be happy. I yell into the nothingness. Why is this so hard? How can I be so uncomfortable in my skin? I want to cut it off. I itch until I bleed. The silence is deafening. The uncontrollable feeling to be held is painful. Pajama pants roll up to my knees. It rubs roughly against the backs of them. Do I even have free will? Do I know who I want? The indecisiveness burns a cigarette wound into my heart. So full of lead, it doesn’t want to beat. Eyes are wet with tears. Cheeks are flushed and sticky. The feeling is stagnant. The cloud that hangs over my head. No one would get it. My friends just joke. My parents wouldn’t listen all the way. I feel entirely alone. Loneliness is a drug. A friend. It never leaves. I want the soft brush of knuckles against my cheeks. I want to hear intertwined laughter. I want saccharine kisses exchanged underneath the moon. The stars being the only witness. I will find you. I will find me. Impatience is a curse. The fairytale ending I prayed for as a child will be mine.
Mia C is a 19-year-old rising junior studying Elementary Education and Literacy Studies and hoping to be a third-grade teacher after she graduates. She lives in Bergen County, New Jersey, and has considered herself bisexual for about five years.