My first kiss was with a girl.
Aged 11, a friend’s house, we swear to never tell
anyone of this,
a pact made by 6 of us,
And, in my defence, it has taken 8 years to even write of it;
Time has passed so rapidly, I’m not sure if the others,
self-named straight girls, even remember that night,
for them, a blurred memory buried deep with
play-doh fears and lego stacked dreams,
for me, 8 years of ignoring half of myself;
8 years of “crush or friend?”
And I suppose it’s funny, because
When I kissed a boy a year later, it was a huge deal
Pressure of friends expectantly watching, daring me, laughing at my
the buried fear that they would find out;
us dorky queers are taunted enough at school.
But none of that aged 11.
None of that at my queer revelation.
No wondering, just wonder.
No longer curious, but satisfied
in the knowledge that no one would know how much I liked
the smooth softness
and long hair
and sunshine that radiated from her.
I don’t remember which of the others I kissed –
8 years is a long time to sit on a memory
and now I will never remember my first kiss,
stolen from me by fear and time and a promise I no longer
have the patience to keep.