I remember the first time I told people about my lover. I told them that my lover had beautiful brown eyes, skin so clear that you can drip honey on so that you can be able to lick it and feel its softness and suck the beauty. I went on social media and told my friends that lover taught me something about pain and scars: we all carry our scars within our sleeves and we can only allow our lovers to see them. I knew I could always count on my lover on a day I had lost my phone and felt frustrated that all my writing material was gone. I knew my lover would be there to hold my hand when I get offered that could advance my career. I knew I had a special place in my lover’s heart because my lover wipes my tears away when my friends die and I feel scared to live and see another day. I know my lover will be there when I spend days on end in bed, shutting the world out and terrified to look at myself in the mirror. My lover knew me.
I wish I knew this about myself. I wish I had the confidence to fully acknowledge who I am without having my lover to hold my hand. I wish I never hid my head behind caps and hats because I was told that it was “abnormally big”. I wish I was bold to tell my Math teacher in the 8th grade to stop calling me names and made jokes about my head in front of the class. I wish I told my then best friend that I don’t appreciate being called Mega Mind. That I am not a cartoon character but just a guy with big brains that can do shit! I swept my confidence under the carpet when my crush told me that she noticed my head and how big it was when I walked into the room.
I wish I never forced a bouncy walk. I wish I would have allowed my hips to sway as they pleased in high school. I wish I never had to keep my head down when I walked the corridors of my high school because side comments would be made about my hips. I wish it was never about people but just me and my hips. About how they are so perfectly placed next to my buttocks, caressed by jeans and outlining the perfection of my bones. I wish I stopped hiding baggy pants I wore earlier in high school because I thought my pants would hide my curves and the Shakira-hips-swaying-walk.
I wish I had hugged myself more like my lover did. Although I understand independence is a myth—people are supported by systems and ideologies that fuel the misleading idea that independence is attainable, I wish I had taught myself to be there for myself. I wish I had not written the suicide note I wrote when I was 12, 14, 16 and 17. I wish I had realized that I am allowed to be broken. That I am allowed to have pieces of myself scattered but remain hopeful that I will be whole some day.
I wish I stopped wishing and did more.