Here's the thing.
I like boys.
But
I love girls.
It's a moralistic tragedy
but I can't tell whose morals
are telling me what's right.
It's not about what's right, let's
talk about what's wrong. 7 years ago
When that boy shoved me backwards.
When he thought I didn't have a choice.
I have a choice.
Don't tell me my choice is wrong.
Because Her hair falls in her face like
the dripping branches of my sycamore
after a long night's storm.
People say she's not delicate,
rough around the edges, if you will,
but when I hold her head in my lap
and run my fingers through her hair
it's like that same rain is washing away
every rough edge of the bark on her skin.
Her skin--feels like--with her hands on mine
the world might just implode on itself
from the sheer beauty of such
living
glorious
sin.