The way I expressed it didn’t fully make sense to my dearest who only likes men. It's never sat right to me the pride of a parent in their straight child's love life, the "don't ask don't tell" for a gay daughter I used to see red as a fad that had passed and a warning that I’m not desired; But I’m seeing clearer now, Rose-colored glasses might actually bring life into focus.
We're all fruity and nonconforming girlfriends and boyfriends and partners each Others cringe hearing "queer"... Yet there’s something more in it: We don't have an explicit gaze, We have possibility, and the subversion of male eyes. So I’ve always been nearly regal like The Lady of Shalott, or Lady Lilith, The Birth of Venus, Flaming June, The Accolade— and I like *** and I feel wanted and I am a commodity--
Don't a man look at me but I will take a boyish girl's gaze only her eyes focused on my *******— Sleep over after the first date, for a change, And remain soft in shape She murmurs a lover’s desires: Wear your identity on your sleeve, In the curve of your back, on the scent of your hair and upon your hips, which invite her hands.
Once, I said "let's make it cinematic Like that one *** scene that's in Mulholland Drive" But now: "Touch me, baby" It's finally the normal way.
Paintings by John William Waterhouse, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Sandro Botticelli, Frederic Leighton, and Edmund Blair Leighton. Quotes from "Naked in Manhattan" by Chappell Roan.