For I had sinned
“As I do every other person.”
This was a default answer to a question I had been asked countless times in high school: How do you see B? But now I was sitting with her beside me in the counsellor’s office, answering a different question: What does she make you feel?
The truth is I felt fleeting things. Twisted, raw, primitive, soul snatching, heart squeezing, breathtaking, nail biting, toe curling things. I felt world ending, cupid inspired, sex driven, hot rising things for this one woman but I was not ready to say it out loud, I was not ready to hear it bounce from my lips to my ears. I could not bring myself to tell anyone else that every breathe this beautiful human drew was another swell of love within me. I was not prepared to be dumbfounded by the very thought of confessing that this one human held together my very sanity. I was not ready to feel the pangs of emotion that came with such utterance of vulnerability. I was not fit for the battle that lay within a simple answer, because I knew this type of love would have to be fought for, slain for, walked through hell for.
So I generated another answer, “Nothing more than friendship.”
And just like that, the seven other adults in the room each let out the collective breathe they had been holding simultaneously.
I had strayed yet again.
I had been suspected of the great outrageous sin of loving anything except a man, by the definition of my society. I had dared to be seen as something else rather than a girl in high school with very heteronormative tendencies. I had dared to walk from under the shadow of a masculine figure. I had refused to swoon over countless love letters from aspiring Romeos begging to resurrect the Juliet they felt was theirs for the wooing. I had stood beside my B, defending, applauding, nursing, loving, encouraging, when society would have had me supporting, submitting, assuring and pampering a man. There was no sin to confess. B made me feel, alive.
This post was first published on africanfire2442’ s blog Interruptus.
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