I’m sorry for trying to love you before I knew what I was doing, before I knew how to be wanted in the light by another person, before I knew how to look in the mirror and see something worth holding onto, before I knew that wanting you had a name and that it was okay to say it. This is no longer an apology to you. It’s one to myself for the times you said kissing me was just friendly, for the months I fucked boys and thought about your mouth, for the nights in your bed and the days on the other side of the room, for the years I thought it was romantic to be a secret, for the size of that
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