Who I am

I. Her

It used to be hard for me to visualize what beauty looked like it. I knew it wasn't me, with curves in the wrong place, mismatched eyes, and a too wide smile. I would picture myself skinnier, taller, tanner and think that then I would know beauty. 

Yet in this moment, I finally understand what beauty is: her. Because looking at her, seeing her smile, watching her laugh and show off her dimples, I can not remember a time when I thought that beauty was anything else. I do not talk, move, or even think. I simply smile, and smile. So much that my head begins to hurt. But I don't stop. I laugh as she dances, as she puts on airs, simply for the enjoyment of others. She is unique, loud, out there — something extra, beyond anyone I have ever known. She is strong with her toned arms, yet soft with her fluid movements. Her love of music is diverse and full, a contrast to my limited palate. As she looks at her phone, or moves about packing her bag, or drinks water slowly, I watch her. Not in a bad way, but in the way that I don't look away. She feels my gaze, sometimes she meets it, but I can not look then. Having our eyes meet scares me; I fear that my eyes speak louder than I ever will. And I am so, so very frightened of the possibility that things will change if she knows. A part of me hopes that the change would bring intimacy, but the larger part of me, the part that speaks when I look in the mirror, knows that she would never talk to me again.

Don't be mistaken! I do not love her, but I do like her. I like her in a way I never thought I would — as my father liked my mother, as a man traditionally likes a woman. I was taught that this is wrong, but I can not deny it. Each time I see her, she stops my heart momentarily and then restarts it with her sly smiles, crazy acts, and beautiful eyes. I, at the very least, like her. Oh, god how the words free me. I have told no other, I can never tell another. I do not even know if I remember how to speak. I know how to talk — that I must do daily at work, in the grocery store, and as I come back to the warm, familiar but unfamiliar, arms of a man who loves me. But I never speak. Because I know that I could never say the truth. Yet as I watch her pack her bag, and leave for the day, my arms physically ache with the need to hold her. I want to touch her, pull her closer, and caress her lips with mine. I want to scream to the world that yes, I like this woman. That I am a woman who likes other women. And that there is nothing wrong with that. I would destroy my entire world, change the lives of all that know me, just for her.

I lied.

I do love her.