It’s midnight. I’m alone.

What am I doing?

You can probably guess. Two words: hormones – actually, just one. Just that word. Hormones. Yeah. I don’t talk about it, because it feels awkward. It feels like I’m giving too many clues away. I can’t let that happen. I’ll feel exposed. It’s not like the information is particularly damaging. It’s not like it’s abnormal. But I like to give them the benefit of the doubt. I like to pretend that I’ve separated my personal life from them. My peers.

I speak the most when I’m typing. When I’m not moving my mouth; when I’m communicating in symbols, not sounds. It makes me feel the safest. When I can hear rhythmic clacking, I know that I’m safe, if only through the absence of tones and inflections.

I still wouldn’t admit it.

It’s like I’m still stuck in some archaic “puritan” form of thinking. I’m still closed up whenever topics like that come up. I don’t want to talk about virginity. I don’t want to talk about romance. I don’t want to look at anything that’s going to ruin my “perception of purity.”

It’s all about that illusion, yeah? Gotta believe that everybody’s a fucking prude, and that we’re all living in a PG-13 world. Hoh, we’re gonna stay kids forever, isn’t that right? Peter Pan’s gonna just whisk us up, and keep me away from the world forever! Wouldn’t that just be wonderful?

No. It would go against biological desires.

I’m not repressed. It just feels awkward. There’s still this lingering feeling inside – as if the devil on my shoulder was replaced by an English Protestant. Horrifying. I’m half-repressed. I can still act normally around it. I just can’t bring myself to talk extensively. I just don’t want to see my classmates in that way. Keep thinking that “we’re too young” and all that. We probably are.

But it’s “natural.”

Fuck, if I’m only half-repressed, then I fear the ones who are fully shut away. I don’t fear the volcano – I fear the explosion.

By god, I really think up a lot of shit. Too much fanfiction. Too many music videos. Too many “yes” responses to age questions. Too much, too early, but too far to go back. Now, all I can do is remind myself about reality, and all the flaws that come along with it.

I can’t keep this up forever. My fingers still itch. I still feel shadows in the back of my mind, stirring ever so softly, every so often. A hint. A tease. A tantalizing view, and the knowledge of how easily I could get there.

For now, I’ll leave this “frustration” flushed down into the toilet, and not typed into something obscene. I’ll abstain.

But we all know how well abstinence goes, yeah?

It’s only a matter of time, I tell you. It’s only a matter of time until I stop reading about romance and start creating it – whether it be in real life, or in text.

All this energy has to go somewhere.


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