January 15, 2024

I, repetitive and too honest, could tell no one had called you pretty like I had that night. 

I remember your dark curls, your tired eyes, like you were waiting for something to go wrong, like this wasn't meant to be a relaxing night. I remember how careless I was, unbothered by stares and fleeting gazes, unable to look at anything else apart from your freckles. Maybe I should've seen the way they were looking at us. For a second I forgot we were two women openly flirting in public in the middle of the French countryside. None of that reality could possibly touch me in that moment. 

I, that night, was unabashedly flirty, ridiculously self confident, and emboldened by the way my interest made your eyes sparkle. 

Holding my cigarette as we laughed, I said in the language of the eyes: "take what you want from me, like I've got something to lose", waiting for a signal to make a mistake, and as we crossed the dark street, I turned to you and asked if you knew the courage I needed to dare. 

Born at the beginning of the evening, this version of me died by the time the sun rose.