no

Six months and I’m still musing over “girl crush,” pretty sure that it’s the space in the dark where our lips do not, cannot, never will touch. (If this is my penance, at least let me paint her in a golden blush- to have and to hold, but never call my own). I think that we are training wheels and hands that bite, she thinks that we are syrup in coffee and friends too busy to hang out. In her version, I find denial in a changing room, while she finds a dress that fits just so and looks so cool. (I hope her boyfriend knows; we are two types of the same fool). She dates him in daylight now. They are cookie cutter heartbreak- fight, make up, and fight again. She tells me, “sweater season won’t last forever,” but sunshine merely ditches “old hoodie” for “oversized t-shirt.“ I shiver in size six, bite my tongue to keep from telling her that she only looks "great.” (They walk home side by side, and though I do not wish it, I am the juice carton that separates their star-crossed knuckles at breakfast time). Screw boundaries- I wonder if he grips her hips or tugs her wrist, bruises in the shape of too-big fingertips and a laugh that side-splits. I wonder if she’s ever thought about me, even by mistake, wonder if she knows that her stupid stupid half smile makes the bones of my shoulders ache. (Why chase after idle boys, when in my eyes, she could be the idolised?) I class I write the simple hypothesis: her mouth tastes like the lipgloss she “borrowed” three weeks ago. Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe she’d taste like smoke and ashes and him and all wrong, and maybe I’d hold her like she was china instead of plastic and she’d get oh so bored. We test this theory skimming rocks on the sand, bitten hand in bitten hand. He is a figure in the distance, a movie reel of old pictures. She is warm and shines golden, and my heart beats in starts until the spell is broken. (“I’ve missed you.”// “Yeah, right.” After three cones of vanilla ice cream, she is a mockingbird in flight). The words “I’m sorry,” are spiders in my throat (and fireflies in her own)- sorry that I care more for soft skin than modern art, sorry that all my cryptic texts ask, beg, plead to return to stuttered starts. I don’t even qualify for experiment- isn’t that the worst part? Her exception is tan and tall and she’s going to kiss her neck in a college bar and leave without looking back, call me and laugh about our common ground. She’ll use a drunken string of “strange-envy-hot,” and I’ll play along, pretend like I hide no shame beneath my sheets, conceal no storm between my ribs. (But in the darkness, I am wrong).

The 100 has had four queer girls.

I’m not saying that this is godawful lesbophobic propaganda

the 100 has also had finn, who was killed by his lover, and wells, who was murdered by a child, and murphy, who has been tortured by grounders god knows how many times, and maya, who died horrifically due to radiation poisoning, and gina, who was just straight up fuckin hacked to death, and clarke’s father, who was floated by his wife, and charlotte, who hurled herself off a cliff, and lincoln, who was made a reaper and will probs die, and raven, who lost the use of her leg, and countless others

tbh, how do we go on? i just feel... crushed? idk. idk if it's valid to feel like this for a fictional character