Even Medusa Should Be Loved
I thought I knew what love was when I was 13 and kissing a tall green eyed boy in the woods whose eyes still send shivers down my spine when I think about them.
And then I turned 15 and I thought I knew when I was crying into the shoulder of a boy who would rather fuck his ex-girlfriend than spend time with me in the daylight. I thought that was what love was supposed to be.
Then I turned 16, and kissed boys who tasted like beer.
Then I turned 17, and kissed boys who told me I tasted like vodka.
Then I turned 18, and started to think that kissing boys made me weaker
and then I turned 19, and kissed boys again anyway.
They would never look directly into my eyes, like I was Medusa and would turn them into stone with the strength of my passion.
I was just an organ pumping blood into their veins feeding their libidos, smiling at their empty compliments until I was sure they would combust.
They looked through me, ignoring the single freckle on my nose, greedily gnawing at my lips instead of tracing the curves with curious fingers.
They never saw the length of my eyelashes or how my left eye sits slightly higher than my right.
I was skin
I was sweat
I was lust
but never a kiss goodbye or a kiss hello.
They taught me that love is not what it’s chalked up to be because they taught me that love is foggy car windows or hickies given by a mouth that knows more about rum than the edges of my body.
Maybe this time they will look into my eyes and wonder what I was like as a child or what book I could read a million times over or what would be my last meal on death row.
But they kissed and touched and fucked the monster with snakes for hair and eyes that could turn anyone cold and lifeless.
I am a monster;
what does that make them?
By Kimberly Siehl
My name is Kimberly Siehl and I’m a 20 year old student at The College of New Jersey studying clinical psychology and spanish. I love writing, singing, dogs, and good food.