No matter how many times I wash them, my sheets still smell like you. Not as a faint scent, not as a memory. The most present, true scent in my bed is you. No matter how often I shuffle or skip the song on my phone, they all sound like you. Your voice suddenly sings all the songs of the world to me. Every colour is you, every bird sings your name, the wind whispers you’re there. And the sun then shines through the leaves and lifts my heavy spirits, but there’s a whole where you once were. There will forever be a whole where you were, on the streets and in my heart. You stick to everything I touch, because your life became mine, but wihtout you it’s just not the same.
People have loved my body many different ways. Lesbians devoured me for the soft curves and the flat stomach. They kissed my chest and let their fingers wander down and up between my thighs.
Straight men kissed my lips wether they were cracked or soft. They ran their hands through my hair and scratched my back while they put their love in the act. A straight man once told me, he still loved me if my faceshape turned sharp and he did. He still loved me after my surgery, just differently.
Gay men cherished my body, kissed my spine, gave me hickeys on my neck. Under no circumstances could I ever be mad at them for their preferences and repulsives, as they all loved and respected me as much as I deserved it. When today, a lesbian loves me the way a gay man does, I see it as a compliment.
They all touched me differently, but they all loved me the same, regardless of my scars and insecurities. It doesn’t matter what I am loved for. What matters is the way I am loved.