If you’re lesbian and you fall for a guy
If you’re gay and you fall for a woman
If you’re bisexual and you have a preference for girls
If you’re bisexual and you have a preference for guys
If you’re pansexual and have a preference
What’s not fine is telling someone they can’t love another person because it doesn’t fit into the confinements of a label.
T H I S
For the record, reading fic where male main character falls in love with another male and has ERHMAGHERD BUT AH EM NOT GAY!!1! panic makes me headdesk. Hard.
We swung and swung and swung until we could almost touch the stars with our fingertips, and you said that for me, you’d pluck the moon from the sky. I told you it was terribly clichéd and you laughed, pointed out that I loved clichés, the older the better.
(And, maybe, secretly, I did.)
You were my moon and my stars and my sun, my magnetic poles and my evening tide; you were the electricity that made my neurons spark and translated the touch of your skin on mine into pleasure.
You stood waiting for me in the rain, and in the snow, and when I cracked a joke about the postal service, the next day you waited for me with a package in your hands, your heart within, wrapped up in sunlight and the softness of your mouth.
You loved me, and you loved me, and you loved me, and I kept it like something precious. I hoarded your love, written in touches and smiles and chuckles more plainly than any words could hope to express, in the safest place I had.
(And that was all yours, too.)
We laid our roots deep, like two trees entwined, and we basked in the sun with our eyes closed, only fingertips touching. We never had to say a word in moments like those when it was just us, a single breathing thing with four arms and legs and two hearts so, so full that they might burst from it.
In the end, it was fear and tears when the darkness began to spread, when you lay wan and tired and pale in the bed, when I wished you had given me the moon if only so that I could give it back, give you my heart to beat, my breath to live.
In the end, it was you in the rain, face turned up with your eyes closed, every line of exhaustion and pain as dear to me as the lines left by laughter, by love, and equally hateful because they were the lines that I had carved into my memory for fear of forgetting.
(Don’t be silly, you said, and your breaths grew shallow. As if you’d forget.)
Isn’t about kissing, holding hands, the dates, and showing off. It isn’t a competition. It’s about being with someone who makes you happy in a way that no one else can. It’s about being with someone who you accepts your weirdness. It’s about being yourself around them and they can be their self around you.