She’s shiny. No, not like a diamond, or a new toy, or when you polish a glass just right.
… Not even quite like a star.
She’s just…
s h i n y.
To call her a beacon of hope, of joy, of anything would be patronizing, would be dehumanizing, maybe even fetishizing and associating any of those words with her makes you cringe, makes you ache with rage at yourself, but -
She.
Shines.
She is the agonizing sun in your eyes when you are driving and the sunbeams that feed the flowers in your garden.
both the highlight of your day and also the worst part
for the warmth in your chest, the fire in your heart,
You suppress and deny until you are almost fool enough to believe yourself when you say “i’m not in love, i’m not in love, i’m not in love”
She shines
She shines so bright it hurts, but you want it to hurt, you can’t imagine it any other way
So you burn, and you burn alone, and maybe always will, because the words dancing inside you -
“Hi, my name is - ”
“I like your skirt”
“What was the homework for Spanish?”
“Hey! I noticed the scratch down your arm, I also have a cat - actually, I have three”
- die before they reach your tongue.
… she’s probably straight, anyway.
