the first time I kissed a girl,
she pressed me up against a tree
and something in my heart sprouted.
i grew away from her quickly
but I’d never felt so warm
in a winter forest.
I was surprised that god
didn’t strike me down for sinning
so spectacularly in a church parking lot.
my wednesday evenings spent
praying for a mix of forgiveness
and acceptance and then finding
want and desperation in her lips.
I didn’t accept or forgive myself
until years later.
of all our months together,
i only cared for her through
shaky armed hugs, flustered words.
never mind what we did in my dreams.
I was never awake enough to share.
i only recall pieces of some girls.
how their mouths felt right
but nothing else did. i see outlines
of places we briefly came together:
messy bedrooms, quietly humming
cars, apartment doorways,
dark restaurants, places
that I never quite fit in.
she and her hands and her
giving heart taught me so much.
but someone can sing the same
songs as you and not be right
there are ways to live with that,
different melodies to hum.
the last time I kiss a girl
I want it to be her, the one
who received my heart
in a mailbox years ago
and has held it ever since.
by callie hensler
Callie Hensler is a lover of words who is currently pursuing a masters degree in music therapy. She writes mostly to deal with her queer girl heart. Her writing is complied at loyaltea.tumblr.com and she can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org