"Late Bloomer," Annabelle Cotton
i never learned how to french braid.
i cut all of my hair off at twelve so i missed out on the years you learn to tuck and weave.
i’m always a bit behind, i’m always trying to catch up.
i hooked up with boys during the years i thought i was supposed to
seeking clarity, repair, self-matinence, an orgasm.
i faked it. all of them. all of me.
i wanted to believe a mid-twenties second puberty could be on the horizon.
one that contained the ability to do pretty braids. the ability to fuck men and like it.
and a manufactured golden girl would hold my place until my day to be normal came along.
but then, there was you.
you braided the pieces of me i couldn’t construe, you held me up to the mirror of what you saw.
i wasn’t a late bloomer, i just had to be watered by someone else.
i was beautiful, with you
i was okay, with you
i was on time, with you.
i was a hobby, for you
i filled the savior complex, for you
i let you destroy me so i could be rescued, by you.
and now my sudden ability to see you outside the world we had, leaves me unsure of what was.
i know i should hate you, but my biggest discovery includes your exploration.
how do i forget you when the only time i understood myself was on your lips?
finally understanding that no amount of time will turn me into the girl who fucks boys.
and regardless of badly i need to, i’m afraid to lose the only person that loved the late parts of me.
I feel like I’ve missed out on toxic and confusing love in the teen years.
Because now, it feels like everyone demands the healthy kind of love,
and i’m 14 again, obsessed with pretty mean girls.
- 4/16/21