I don’t think I have ever been anyone’s type fully.
My first and last boyfriend felt the brunt of his decision to pursue me when he realised that I preferred to lie down and dream; or be sat down reading. His efforts to touch the parts of me that would cause all of me to unravel into his palms were fruitless. The day he first pressed his lips against mine the first thought I had was that teeth were such an obstructive bone.
Maybe it is because I nitpick at errors. All kinds. Grammatical ones, moral ones. especially mine. Or maybe it was because I was unyielding in my decision to maintain a childish perspective that he was unable to comprehend. Or maybe because I am simultaneously stubborn and spacey; principled and forgetful, contradictory but unwavering.
Maybe it is because I rush through words and sentences and life; cannot sit still and even when I do, in my mind, my fingers are playing pieces only I can hear. Or because I lived most of my teenage life lurching from soaring levels of self worth to none and just recently settled at a steady high. Maybe it is because ¼ of my face is my Kenyan forehead. Or because my hands are always stained with color; ink, pastels, paint, bruises. Last year, my friend told me he had a crush on me and I asked him to explain himself. Maybe it’s the strange things that come out of my mouth or my dry jokes and naivete that oozes out of me like a flower scent.
Or maybe it is because I have yet to find myself, fully.
Big Busy Days Ahead