If a fag is a cancer stick, why does liking girls make me cancerous?
I guess maybe the fumes from the endless amount of paint I’ve accidentally ingested would eventually settle into my organs and cause my cells to regenerate into a tumor, but until then, I’ll settle for my embarrassing routine of watching her from the opposite corner of the art studio trying to recreate the color of her eyes in my sketchbook. Did you know that the pattern of your eyes can never be the same to anyone who has lived before and anyone who will live after? That is yours and yours alone, so when I say that her eyes remind me of the ocean, I really mean I have never seen anyone with a pattern that could reflect the blue light that bends so perfectly in our atmosphere that our ocean takes its inspiration from because the ocean is ever changing and so are her eyes even though those beautiful patterns remain the same when they stare at rotting wood. And yes, I’m jealous of the piece of wood that will be graced with the privilege of her undivided attention because her ADHD doesn’t allow her human form to sit still or her mind to concentrate on all of me...
Maybe that’s why she left.
Maybe she left because I wasn’t the object of her focus and never could be when she kept talking of those boys and how they made her feel the same butterflies I got when I first met her. Instead of being warm, my butterflies made me vomit because of how nervously in love I was with her. How can I tell her any of this when she is out kissing the lips of those boys who will never be me because a girl isn’tsupposed to look at her friends that way? But I do, and I have every single day since I first met her in the Catholic church that brainwashed me into thinking that the female anatomy isn’t where I should look for love and comfort even though we all come from the security of a woman’s womb. If God made me in his image and likeness, why is it more acceptable to smoke endless amounts of fags every day than to actually be one?
For a time, I struggled to find myself since she had gone, looking for validation in the strangers who passed me by, hoping that this one girl was wrong. I may not understand who I am exactly, but here is where I’ll mark my grave because so help me, creator above, I am human and damn proud I have a voice. It is here, in my own battered heart, that I found acceptance for the parts of me I cannot manipulate into submission. I refuse to degrade myself for the sake of others and it is there where I found myself in all of my own glory. In the end, bisexuality was not the cancer I should have been afraid of, but the people who tried to contain me into a single word.
Sophia DeMartino is a current freshman at Albany pursuing a double major in Studio Arts and English. In high school, Sophia has had the opportunity to be a part of Girls Write Now, a women-led non profit organization in New York City that helps girls improve their writing through monthly workshops that teach various techniques and styles. Her start, however, began when she was only a child. She had been writing, drawing, dancing, and painting since she was four years old and has held deep passions for the arts ever since. Now, she is looking to pursue her passion for teaching kids by studying to become an English teacher for future generations.