Sappho told me I could be this happy, but I couldn’t understand her.
you see, the fragment was untranslatable and incomplete—
the scholars I ran to shrugged their demure cardigan shoulders and plus,
I was already late to the 6:30 bus,
and left my earl grey tea at home,
I had accidentally set my joy on my childhood swings and
forgot to pick it back up,
I spilled ink on my brand new
womanhood and
left the paperwork bookmarked in Sister Outsider.
I didn’t realize the world was opening its petals for me, gentle as the cool mist.
I was too busy feeling guilty for the love that I felt weeping out of
me, like the willows frozen beyond her window. She penned golden-wheat sunlight there,
and I feel the teenage girl secret of our broad hearts beating every second.
But see, I have found her letter to me
(it was underneath my pillow,
sleeping as gentle as a rose, and I laughed when I found it, because
of course
it was under my pillow)
Beatrice Irwin is first and foremost a lesbian and secondly a screenwriter, professional opinion-haver, and poem lover. She says that hell is not a teenage girl and lives in Baltimore, going to an arts high school for literary arts. Bea spends her free time putting on lip gloss and rooting for other girls; find her on Instagram @notsaintbeatrice or Twitter @notstbeatrice.