i am seventeen
sitting in classics
seeing them hold hands. the girls.
they are proud.
open.
unrelenting.
hadrian eyes me, seeing i do not understand.
'cur invida es?'
i do not look at him.

                     odi et amo quare id faciam fortasse requiris
                            nescio sed fieri sentio et excrucior

he puts his hand on my shoulder
where it still remains.

please, muse, tell me about the girls i have known.
the sweet, drunken collision in late summer.
that second, drunker moan in early spring.
it wasn't real until they pressed their soft, wet lips to my own
and gave me the deed to my own life.
it wasn't real until i realised i could kiss back
wrapping my arms around her waist
stretching my hands up her back
feeling baby hairs at the tips of my fingers
slotting my tongue into her mouth
feeling my teeth clashing
gums sliding
like my back, up the wall.
it wasn't real until another begged me to slide into her bed, giggling,
pressing her nose to mine
slowly turning her face making me feel like i am plummeting
until i am caught by her sigh into my heavy mouth.
she pressed her body against mine and dug her hands into my thick hair
begging me,
begging me to remember it all tomorrow, to not forget.
i may have been buzzed,
drunk,
wasted,
but how could i deny her this gift?

i can never tell them.
this is one of the two things i realised when i turned sixteen.
the other, well, it isn't hard to guess.
tearful confessions, anger, acceptance, indifference.
each prospect as possible as the next. i don't care.
all i know is that everything will change.
everything will change and i will become irreverence
or cease to be at all.
i can never tell them.
'dude that's ******* gay'
the low cackle of my parents laughing at my brother
'don't curse.'