When I think of my love for men, I feel as though it is a force, as though I can't control it. It is as much a part of me as my stomach fat or bad coping mechanisms. It feels tainted... dirty. If he can't put me up on the shelf for all to see or hide me away in a box in the attic to indulge in later, then I might as well disappear altogether in his eyes. My love is an annoyance, a fly he's swatting at behind his ear because the sound is just so grating. This love is addiction, constantly reminding me that I am powerless against it. And even so, I fight so hard to keep it as far away from me as I can.
When I think about my love for women, I feel whole. It feels like a voluntary action... something I don't mind to dip into. She takes the fly behind her ear and guides it back outside where it belongs. This love is my smile, my hair in the swooping pinned back style I like, my humanity. I am a partner in crime, a lover, an equal. She is making tea in the morning before class, she is the first snow in November... just a light dusting, but just enough to be positively mystical. This feeling is untamed and dizzying, and I don't mind falling down and letting the ceiling spin above me.
