I can no longer hold it back: Your otherwise delusional perception of reality is true. I am, and have always been, irrevocably in love with you.
It’s taken me so long to admit this to myself, and now to you and the rest of the world, because you are the complete opposite of my ideal girlfriend. Not only are you no Shane McCutcheon or Ruby Rose — you’re not masculine at all. You have zero chivalry and no idea how to treat a woman, as a woman yourself. You don’t even respect me when I say no or ask to be left alone.
Even though you’re supposedly so in love with your douchebag-named boyfriend, whose existence you never fail to remind me of, I know you’ll be much happier with me because I’m a lesbian and this is how all lesbians feel, after all.
Which, really, I guess is why I am so attracted to you. Because I, a lesbian, am attracted to all that which moves and sex is female. Why, pray tell, would I have a type at all with such a minuscule dating pool? What is even the point of joining dating sites like OkCupid and HER, or specialized ones that connect butches and femmes, when you are the only one I want on this planet?
Of course, I already know what your answer is because, obviously, I know you. Women know each other, and we’re both women. And I’m a lesbian, which obviously means I’m a fucking mind reader. It’s because, despite how much my heart aches, you are unavailable and I must move on with my romantic life. There is a love out there for me, it’s just not you. I need to stop getting so hung up on you.
I’m sure everyone else, as you have told me millions of times, will agree that I have done nothing but obsess over you. It’s why I, a femme who loves being chased, have asked you to leave me alone dozens of times. It’s why I thought people like you could change and that we could actually coexist in the same universe.
But I should have known from the start. You hate fellow women, which is twisted as fuck, but then…well…you’re straight. I’m finally starting to see that. It was my mistake, pining after you all this time. It’s just that I can’t take a fucking hint when a woman isn’t interested in me because I’m so aware of all of my sapphic beauty that I don’t understand why someone wouldn’t be attracted to me.
Because I don’t understand the point of having “types”.
Because my brain doesn’t turn into giddy goo when I see an attractive butch woman in public.
Because the last thing I get off to is the idea of a masculine-of-center woman pushing me against the wall and ravishing me like I’m the last woman on earth.
Because my sole purpose in life is to be an experiment or the answer to unicorn hunters.
Because the last type of person I would ever want to spend my life with is a woman who respects my boundaries.