T H E T U S C A R O R A R E V I E W 2 0 2 3 9 I’m Sorry I Love A B I G A I L F E L T H A M I’m sorry that I look at women the way a girl is supposed to look at men. Watching them smile in delight at a tiny thing that happened to them; maybe a sweet text or a long-awaited accomplishment, my cheeks rosy as I watch. I was raised to be a good girl. To fall in love with a man and, eventually, marry him in a towering church. That church became more like a prison the longer I looked, and the gleaming rings like rusted shackles, impossible to escape from and explore the entire world. I’m sorry I like men and women. Sorry that I like kind-hearted men who blush when you smile and stammer over their words and fiddle with their keys, rather than rough and closed-off men. I’m sorry that I like strong women who can be loud and soft. I’m sorry I like them both. “I’m sorry,” I whimper, as people I meet say, “You’re young! You’ll come to your senses when you meet a good man.” Years in the future, the tears will become hard and cold, frozen and uncaring ice, blind to the looks and taunts. Yet I’m still sorry, because if you hate me so much for liking women, how much will you despise me for dating two people, three people, four? Will you lash out? Will you shun me, as if my life is lesser? I’m sorry I don’t know; I don’t know what to choose! Should I ignore this part of myself, sequestered to a life of despair to please you? Or do I risk it all—family, friends, love, a home—so I can kiss and hold the hands of the person, the people, I love? I’m sorry because I know the disappointment you will feel. I’m sorry I’m not the perfect girl, who will fall for a perfect boy and live in a perfect house with a perfect fence and perfect kids. I’m sorry my perfect is not the same as your perfect. I’m sorry I looked in a way I was never meant to. But I’m not sorry for loving.
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