a seat for one

being on the ace spectrum, love as a concept, and being sixteen.

you’ll be sixteen.

you’ll be pondering, in a way that 

you don’t feel your age yet reflects. 

Let's say you’re alone, on a bench. 

Let’s say in front of you is a street full of beautiful people,

and they’re all your age,

and they’re all in love.

Let’s say you’ll root for them- how could you not? 

so happy in their innocent devotion, 

so pure and clear. 

so beautiful, 

and so in love.

Let’s say in your lap is a book- 

and in the book, the characters are your age, 

and they are in love. 

in love, and beautiful,

 beautiful in themselves

 and beautiful in their love. 

you’ll smile to yourself.

and then you’ll realise that 

the bench beside you is still empty, 

and that before you despite the sheer number of people who 

receive love, 

give love, 

have love, 

not a single one quite looks like you, 

Or quite sounds like you.

None of them remind you of yourself, which is fine

But it does make you wonder,

A horribly abstract idea taking shape in the back of your mind.

there’s an itching in your throat 

to call out for someone in the crowd, 

Someone you love, 

Someone who loves you,

You’re sure they’re there,

but you’re not sure 

what they look like, 

or how their name should feel in your mouth, 

so you stay silent, 

glued to the bench.

 Maybe there's comfort in that- 

maybe the bench is comfortable, 

in a way,

 because although the crowd seems nice-

 beautiful, bright, 

And it’s so clear where they’re all headed, 

while for you, on the bench, 

It’s hard to distinguish your directional intention,

you’re not quite sure 

you’d have the strength in your legs to carry yourself over, 

not quite sure 

you’d know how to act when you got there. 

maybe if it was all easier, 

you think, 

maybe if the crowd wasn’t quite so far 

or if someone could carry you over,

you’d quite like it.

maybe if you could 

mould the someone to your liking,

and glue them to your side for courage,

and have that never change,

you wouldn’t mind it.

If the circumstances were right, 

then maybe you could fake your way through the crowd, 

see what’s beyond, 

and find comfort on your feet, 

skin to skin, 

eye to eye 

with someone who loves you 

in the way you want to be loved. 

Because, you do want to be loved,

deeply, unfathomably, you crave it.

by sixteen, you’ll surely have figured out what you want. 

man, 

woman, 

anything. You’ll know.

but maybe, deep down,

you’ll realise that the issue was

beyond finding the right arrangement of anatomy.

maybe the issue was you. 

Maybe, even now,

thinking you know every kind of word for love, 

you still can’t muster one that fits how you’ve ever felt. 

you wouldn’t feel repulsed at the thought of souls intertwining, 

skin blurring, 

hearts slamming into one another, 

but the semantics never seem worth overcoming.

But you’ve been in love, 

you think, 

You’ve loved someone.

but then, 

you flinched at the thought of their hand in yours, 

because it felt like pretending,

And then,

you watched them take someone else’s hand, 

with your encouragement. 

and you never minded. 

you think,

 the validation mattered more than a life with them. 

the validation meant more than anything, 

and it still does, really.

It didn’t ache how lost love should have. 

It never does.

but you’ve been in love, 

you think, 

but not for the sake of it. 

you’ve been in love to prove that you could be.

you found someone who was exceptionally tolerable,

Maybe you even liked them,

who tolerated you, 

Maybe even liked you,

and clung to the idea that it would all fall into place.

But then,

 you imagine them before you, 

inevitably, 

with their heart in their hands, 

bleeding so scarlet, 

you couldn’t imagine how they could have produced such a deeply beautiful colour. 

what you must’ve done to them,

that they would have ripped their own heart for you,

you’re not quite sure.

All you know is that they didn't do it to you,

Now they want you to take their heart,

 take their heart from their bloody hands,

oh, how they must trust you with something so delicate, 

and they want your heart, 

but all you can pull from your chest is

an apologetically maroon, shrivelled artery, 

and they’ll hate you for it, 

and you’ll hate yourself for it, 

hate that you couldn’t produce 

something so beautiful

and that they hated what you could produce so deeply. 

it will shake you, 

and the leftover blood will stain your hands,

and mar the pages of the book in your lap

 before you could even finish it, 

and you’ll see them in the crowd 

so clean you can’t hate them for it, 

but the bench beside you is still soaked in their blood,

 and no one will sit down beside you.

Author's Note

being on the ace spectrum is tuff stuff

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