Someone once told me what love was. They told me it was special. Too special to understand.This is a bisexual perspective on love. Like that makes any difference.

Ihave learned that it doesn't matter how many times you say it; in how many ways you say it, or who you say it too. It matters that you say it; because when you say it you are letting the world know that you are just like them. Well, not just like them, rather just like whom they want to be themselves, which in turn, is who they want you to be. It is combination of three words. In every language it means the same thing. "I love you."

I want to write about it. I want to write about love. But I can't. Maybe I just don't know what to say. I know what it is. It's this weird type of passion people have for each other. And it's not just something that can be passed down from one person to another. Kind of like an old keepsake. It's like it always has to be created over and over each time. Love, that is.

It's also shy. And for some strange reason people have always seemed to be so shy and sensitive to the subject of love. It's like they don't want to hear about it because they don't want to think about it because the truth of the matter is that they truly know all about it. They know what it does. They know where it goes. They know how it ends. And for some reason, knowing is enough. They know of it, so they don't even need to speak of it. Yet, they cry out for it.

And I am not talking about the "I love you" a man says to his partner every morning and every night before they go to bed. I'm talking about the man that never finds love. He goes to his mother's house every Christmas; and every Christmas he hears the same comments, "Dear God, you're a grown man. When will you find yourself a lady to settle down with?" That's the love we never speak of. The love we want but we just can't seem to reach

When I was younger I would image that boys liked me. Silly, I know, but the truth is, if they really did like me, I could not tell. Honestly, it wasn't until a few years ago that I even liked them. It was the end of my eighth grade year. I like this boy named Parker. But I didn't love him. There is no way I could have loved a boy I had hardly spoken to. In ninth grade I loved my neighbor. Well, I didn't love him. I had a crush on him. But only for the same reason I had a crush on Parker. I thought just maybe I wouldn't be alone. Maybe I could find love. Screw that.

My sophomore year I fell in love. I thought we were great together. They made me happy. We were together whenever we had a chance and we talked when we couldn't hold each other close. We had our best and our worst times.It was great.

I came out to my parents that year. I had to explain to my parents that I, their only daughter, went "both ways".

That shouldn't have bothered my mom. I know for a fact that it didn't bother my father. But it ruined my mom's hopes. All of her big plans got crushed. She was going to be a grandma. But I can't help it. They should have been happy for me. I had found love. And that's what we all want, right?

I misunderstood love.

I was sixteen years old. I didn't know what love is. Honestly, I am only 17 now; I probably don't know what love is still. But hey, I experienced it, right? We fought to be together and when we were together we were happy as hell. No joke; until it all changed. But that doesn't matter. Not in this conversation. Right now, what matters is love.

Love, is shy. It iskind. Love is open to new ideas. Love is a whisper that only two people can hear. Other people can see only what the whisper leaves behind. Happiness, laughter, good and sometimes bad times. Love, well, love is art.