Late Bloomer

by Mazey Eddings

It sometimes feels like a curse to be attracted to men, seeing as I don’t generally like them. Now, women? I love women. They are creatures I genuinely want to talk to and also kindly ask to sit on my face.

My parents never miss an opportunity to whine about how they didn’t sleep through the night for the first ten years of my life—always waking up with a jolt from the force of my gaze as I hovered at the edge of their bed like a Victorian ghost child.

I'm dead

It’s a bit difficult to take Opal’s demand seriously, with her big scared eyes and messy hair and full, rosy cheeks. The woman is, unfortunately, rather cute. Which makes the massive upheaval she’s caused in my life all the more disarming. And annoying. So very fucking annoying.

How am I supposed to be assertive when what I’d rather do is kindly ask this beautiful woman to choke me with those endlessly long legs?

“Flowers are thirsty little sluts. Got it.” “Don’t call the flowers sluts,” Pepper says, brow still furrowed but a soft curl of a smile trying to pull through. “Respect the flowers’ delicate constitutions and fear of profanity. Understood.”

“I’ll bring it up in therapy. Which I’ll go to as soon as I can afford some cute little health insurance.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks and floods through my body, a big buffoon grin stretching from ear to ear. Pepper smiles too, brief and dazzling, before averting her eyes and focusing on her food. My ridiculous smile is stuck like that through the rest of the meal. And the drive home. And the next few hours lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling with that warmth still pressing through me, every cell in my body alive and vibrating. And one thing becomes rather obvious: I’m so undeniably fucked.

“It’s okay,” I whisper to myself, dragging the pad of my index finger over the background, giving the damp mix of colors one last loving smudge. “You’re allowed to play. You’re allowed to try.”

She's so sweet, honestly, fuck everyone that has tried to and has taken advantage of her. I love Opal <3

I gave up perfection in any other aspect of my life long ago. It’s simply not possible with a brain like mine. But my art is different; it’s the better version of me, the one I wish people could know me by.

And I realize I’ll play any type of fool to make her laugh.

Pepperrrrr!!!

“Sounds pretty gay. I’m in,” Ophelia says.

That half smile of hers drains all the laughter out of me, and I’m left wanting nothing more than to press my lips against hers in the vain hope that some of her light will flood into me.

<3

Sometimes I hate myself. I hate my meekness and my boldness. I hate my fear and my audacity to try. Sometimes the hate digs its roots in so deep, it feels like it is me. I hate that hate. I have endless grace for everyone in the world, but none for myself. Why am I not allowed to make mistakes? Why does my compassion stretch to strangers but stop at my own front door?

Robert wasn’t uber rich or anything like that, but he had more money than anyone I’d ever known. I mean, the fact that he had a working dishwasher and garbage disposal and central cooling meant he belonged to the one percent to someone like me.”

Facts

And it’s true. I’m ridiculous and hyper and a fool. All for her. I’d do anything to make her laugh.