Every February 14th, for the four or so years of my life when I was young enough to wear Velcro sneakers but old enough to strap them myself, I asked everyone to be my valentine. My mother would drop me off at elementary school with a stack of red and pink heart-shaped valentines, each addressed to one of my classmates. On the night before Valentine’s Day, we would sit at our kitchen table and my mother would scroll through the list of my classmates’ names, spelling them out slowly as I wrote. To: Leah. The girl with pretty blonde hair who once told me it’s funner to slide without holding on. To: Francis. The boy with dimples who stole my favorite eraser and told our teacher it was an accident. To: Meghan. My best friend, because she was just as bad at dodgeball as me and so we spent much of gym class on the bleachers together. From: Rafaela. At this age, polyamory is permitted, encouraged even. Everyone was my valentine. I loved them all the same.
On Polyamory
