(Lesbian) Heartbreak Hotel and Other Shitty Love Songs (LGBT) (GirlxGirl)

Track Four: Hate that I Love You -Rihanna and Ne-Yo

They say that if you go a whole month without showering, your body will naturally start producing the right balance of chemicals to cleanse yourself and make you smell, y'know, not like shit. Now, I'm not going to be the dumbass who tests that one out, so after a weekend of being curled up in my darkened bedroom, I finally hop in the shower Monday morning.

Running my hands through my long, tattered hair, I feel like a stranger to myself. Unbrushed, and unkempt, I was not the girl that usually stands here, letting boiling hot shower water burn away unwanted thoughts. Today, the water runs cold. I stare at myself in the tiny mirror my mom keeps in the shower for shaving her pits, and the tired eyes of someone that I don't know blink back at me, water dripping down her face. The girl draws her hands up to cover her breasts and bites her lip.

"I'm gay," She whispers, as if testing it out, immediately squeezing her eyes shut, and then slowly opening them, one after the other. Her chest heaves, partially from the icy water pounding against it and partially because of the adrenaline of being free.

"I'm gay," I whisper again, drawing my hands away from my body and up to my face, wiping the water and the tears away and laughing; long, shuddery giggles that hadn't seen the face of the earth in so long. The laughter of someone I used to know, and someone that I will know again.

"I'm a lesbian," I say, louder, turning off the water, and letting the silence surround me. But here's the thing about silence; a little too much of it and you start to fill it with the sounds you don't want to hear. As self-doubt starts leaking into my eardrums like the most common of poisons I throw open the shower curtain and turn on the faucet to brush my teeth. Anything to drown out the sounds that insist that I'm wrong.

At school I can't quite seem to shake the feeling that every eye that lingers on me can see the label as if it were etched into my skin-- like the word lesbian had been seared into my forehead. As a rational fucking human being, I know that this is asinine, but I can't help but wonder if my realization is sticking to my sweater like a flannel jacket.

"Shelby," Bethany calls from down the hall. And when I turn my head to see her running joyfully towards me, every moment of discomfort and every feeling of anxiety becomes worth it. She's smiling at me and it's like the sun has chosen me to accept all of it's light and warmth.

God fucking damn it, am I becoming a sappy fuck?

"Hey," She says, breathless, resting her hands on her knees. I grin at her, shutting my locker and grabbing her hand.

Woah. I didn't expect myself to do that, and Bethany didn't either judging by her widened eyes. She stares at our hands secured closely together for a moment more and then beams at me, squeezing my palm so tightly I'm almost positive she wants me to sweat. In the grand scheme of things, holding hands is not exactly a big fucking deal, but for me, it felt momentous. I'm not about to go giving myself any pats on the back, but her dainty, slender fingers felt more right in my hand than the sausage fingers of any man I'd screwed before. And as I looked into her eyes as we walked down the hall, her asking me about the rest of my weekend, and me replying with vague answers so as not to allude to my wallowing, I realize that maybe all those stupid love songs had some relevance after all.

The rest of the week goes by in something of a haze. I go in and out of being comfortable with Bethany's presence. Some days, I avoid her. On others, I can't stand not having her near me. On most of the days, I feel angry at myself, for one reason or another. For all the lies I've told myself. For all the hurt I've caused. For being gay. For not loving myself for being gay. I'm actually not gay though. God, shut up.

It goes around and around like that over and over until I make myself sick. Sometimes I wonder if it's easy for anyone. Is it just me? Fighting myself constantly? Most days, it feels like it is. Just me, that is. And I feel wrong for that too.