Why Love is Like Smeared Ink

I’ve always liked writing in pen because the smeared ink

serves as a good metaphor for my messy life;

I like writing in pen because the ink in itself is a reason for my life's messy-ness.

I'm no philosopher, but I know a hopeless romantic when I see one - she stares back at me whenever I glance into a mirror. As unfortunate as it may be, I can't help but love love.

But the story of the universe isn’t written in perfect size 12, Times New Roman font -

life is nothing if not complicated.

My first kiss took place a roller rink, in a booth in the back where we wrote our initials in sharpie afterwards.

I’ve never felt anything so amazing as the feeling of a thousand tiny stars being born

in the space between her lips and mine.

My second kiss happened in the theater closet at school where we didn't write our initials afterward for fear of being discovered.

But discovered we were, and in turn we ourselves discovered that the world,

though circular, is not always a circle of friends we prefer to see it as.

I stepped out of the closet and into an oozing pit of hate,

sharp words thrown at us by people who weren’t even concerned

about what would happen if their shots didn’t miss.

They insisted that we should go back to where we came from,

but no one can truly live a life worth writing about

from behind a closet door.

Luckily I was too in love to really notice - fear is less threatening

when you have someone else’s hand to hold.

But there were still nights I kept an escape backpack by my bay window, just for emergencies;

days I felt sick stepping off the bus onto our dusty driveway,

unsure of whether I’d walk into a loving household or a war zone.

When I was little, I never dreamt

that I’d have to toughen up just to handle the world’s perception of me;

never thought I’d be drowning in my own obvious difference,

forced to choose between loving for myself or everyone else.

Opposites do not always attract.