She'd called me lame
At least once every day for the past week.
So that's what I had expected,
When I asked her what it felt like to kiss,
But her answer was
What a twelve year old would consider,
Remarkable.
"Warm,"
She said, "It makes you feel warm."
She looked at me expectantly,
Like I was supposed to know what kissing felt like,
Or perhaps even,
That it was supposed to be an intention of mine.
Well,
Kissing was not on my list of priorities
And thinking about doing it myself,
Was practically as shocking
As dropping an egg from the top of the empire state building
And watching it miraculously stay in tact.
I pretended that her words gave me solace, of course,
I wasn't rude,
And I certainly didn't want her to think I was.
If only for fear that if I heard the word lame one more time,
I would burst into a million pieces.

So, I pretended that I knew what she meant.
But truthfully, that was the first time I'd ever felt lame.
And I imagined her kissing some boy,
Trying to see things from the other side of her...
"Non-virgin" lips.
And my first thought was still -- "Ew."

But from the perspective of a twelve year old,
That makes sense.

So when I admitted four years later,
To a boy I barely knew at the time,
That a part of me still wants to cringe at the thought of kissing,
He told me
"It's nice, don't worry."
...And I pretended that I felt better.
Like maybe the air in my bedroom had changed,
Maybe it wasn't so sour, and maybe I wasn't so crazy.

Well, today I found out I'm 45% psychopathic,
Just like my mother.
And the air in my room never changed,
So I guess you could call me lame
And maybe...
I won't explode.