04.26.17

by Lissa McFarland

I remember the first time I heard the word lesbian. I was 7. how another young girl whispered it like a dirty word and everyone giggled, but my laugh caught in my mouth, slid down my throat, and sunk into the bottom of my stomach. it was a filthy word that tasted like stagnant water whenever I tried to work my tongue around it. it was spat out by my peers and parents and even myself; the word acrid on our tongues. to be one was to be ugly and undesirable and completely unlovable.

the first time I was called a dyke I was 14. the words were crudely etched into the wall by the back doors of the school with a key. a small group gathered around them, debating their truthfulness. they scattered when I approached, which meant it must be serious. I traced the words with my finger, letting the cruelty of the act seep into my body. it burned my eyes as tears threatened to escape and my palms where my nails cut little crescents into the soft skin and later my hip when I pulled the blade across it the first time.

my first kiss was when I was 16. we said goodbye as we stood on my front porch, neither of us wanting her to go. illuminated by orange light and surrounded by still air, she was beautiful, and I was nervous. my heart cracked my ribs and my hands shook. I was confetti. I don’t remember going back inside,but I laid in bed that night and thought of her rose petal lips and how her laugh comes out in bursts and bubbles and I knew.

finally, at 21, I’m learning how to say lesbian and have it taste like how she takes her coffee—sugary sweet and creamy. my mouth slowly understands the way it needs to move to hold the syllables with care. it will take time, but I will figure out how to exhale love love love and only love. I’m teaching myself to pack my wounds with flower petals so that when I heal I can maybe be unyieldingly soft and gentle.