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Why do you care so much are you gay?
A question I remember often being asked.
How illogical it is to assume your child
will be anything other than straight,
to be raised on the belief that other
was either a phase or a sin.
Maybe I just care about people as human beings -
or maybe there was something more to it.
How wrong it felt to push my sexuality in a corner
and pretend it did not exist.

Once I pushed past that,
the feeling was surreal.
Finally embracing your true self
is a feeling you never forget.
I did not choose this;
To fall in love with words, personalities, feelings,
never confined to gender,
but I have accepted it.
That is what is most liberating.
I feel free.
~ I.M
vonny Apr 2020
i was only taught one way

walking a straight line

the dance felt right but only halfway

i never understood why

hiding in repulsion

at what i might be

i didn't want to walk in circles

i preferred my simple dance

ignoring my feelings came rather sudden

i didn't understand at all

trying different sorts of line dances

somehow didnt feel right

i found one right in the middle

didn't join until now

full of shame at how depraved i was

for me to want to be in a different dance

would all my friends be in question

would my parents look at me in withering disappointment

too late

i stepped in
i wrote this about my bisexuality and never feeling like i fit in.
Eva B Apr 2020
In the mirror
the hickey looks like
lipstick. When I rub
my neck
her teeth stay
stuck like kissy lips
on mirrors
of girly girls.
On the surface
the blue-blood egret
and his
white-toothed egret
friend look like
They share the lake’s
surface like comrades splitting a spliff
during war.
The mirror’s surface
reflects my haggard
The kiss on my neck brings me pleasure
that is difficult to peck in the eddy formed after she swelled along my desire.

In the mirror:    
his naked body
my naked body
like the cartilages
of comrades marching back
to their bombed base.
That night he finished quiet like the veteran
egret pecking his prey.
That night I spread––
the eddy after the prey was pecked. On my surface I can’t find any traces
of his breath or his pecks. The mirror’s surface reflects our haggard love––
tired of slithering away
from egret beaks
finding it difficult
to breathe
lifting its long neck
above the swell
in the eddy
in this sea.
Peyton James Feb 2020
I am the middle child,
Though I have no siblings
To speak of.

Growing up a heathen among lambs,
I emerged from the blessed pool
A member of the cult of liberated women.
Out of my own distorted sense of sexuality,
I arrived with a label that designated me
With the right to love all -
She, her, him, they.
So why is it then, that I am still unclean?

My creator told me once that
I came off the assembly line
With a crack in my chassis.
See, I have this switch embedded
In the deep recesses of my mind,
That can allow me to only appreciate
The aesthetic of sharp lines and flat planes;
But then, I sink too deep into the scent
Of azalea, and I salivate at the thought
Of soft curves, running my tongue
Along plump flesh, and Oh!
I lost my admission to heterosexuality.

I am the cellophane blanketing
Every celebration of liberty and pride.
Marching along the same sacred ground,
My ancestors rioted for the right
To be visible, to be sanctioned a people;
And yet, my boyfriend’s arm around
My waist is the burden that I haul.
I scrutinize the overwhelming list
Of binding entrance rules,
Only to find myself drowning
In waves of haughty rebels
That dictate I’m not “gay enough to ride” -
I lost my way to the left side of the spectrum.

I peer into the static-covered looking glass,
Only to watch myself dissolve.
Piper, Catherine, Frank, or Queen Sophie Anne
Are not me. They are poorly illustrated
Cartoons of people like me.
I am not promiscuous, confused, and blood-lusting,
Nor am I the forgettable adjutant in your
Breath-taking! ****! Highly marketable YA novel.
I am the middle child, and I demand more.
This poem is dedicated to all of my bi, pan, and trans brethren that have made their home the middle of the sexuality spectrum. We are all middle children and we are all beautiful humans.
Shane Lee Oct 2019
Be it a sin to be as I am,
born into tedious maturity -
or just born into the admiration of such maturity.
It is not hard for me to admit
that, by some stroke of my Father's givings,
I can study carefully the curves:
carefully, lovingly, enviously, sensually.
They perk and rise at the gaze of such admiration;
they smoothly transition into valleys,
vastly expanding before I can believe they were there;
moist with love of carefree nurture and nature.

Oh! Whomever made such the beautiful creation they call
A Woman!
Her lips so full and as they part
I almost wish she wouldn't speak a word
only to gawk at the beauty that is her open mouth.
It is not only appearances she keeps,
it is her appraisal of menial trials that woes me so.
She openly gives and they greedily take;
but she does not falter.
She is the truest meaning of strength.

She radiates her confidence
but relinquishes her peace of mind unto me.
I only accept it readily and happily.
Yes, lean onto me and revel in the comforts that,
you so readily, give away to others.
I will not belittle such a gift;
I only wish to accept it as I wish to accept you.
You're beauty, mind, peace,
everything that is you that I wish to share with you.

I am born to love the aspects of such a woman,
not vain and elevated in mind;
but I cannot deny that, in my manly pursuits of her,
I cannot ignore or deny the manly pursuits of myself.
I continue, comfortable in the sexuality that is mine,
Proud even to have the nature to appreciate such fairness
both in a woman and in a man.
It is my nature and it is NOT a sin.
I accept all things that are human and beautiful,
I only appreciate them in the ways of a fool -
A fool that only wishes to love without
wishing to be accepted by those that cannot be bothered  
to appease such a love.
I wanted to do something that portrayed my view of ****** orientation. I really just wanted to focus on the same *** for this one.

I hope you enjoy (:
© Shane Lee
Jude Quinn Jun 2019
Blood of a poet dripping from me.
*** and magic feeding my dreams.

I used to write poems for lovers,
Now I write poems for love.

Life is written in verse;
every line has its rhyming pair.

From chaos comes chaos,
Heartbeat brings heartbeat.

There's no heart or soul that's truly alone,
There's an incomplete poem,

And every poem finds its ending,
it doesn't matter if it's masculine or feminine.

A line, a rhyme.
You'd be surprised by what you rhyme with.
Leigh Mar 2019
how does one go about expressing their love to a girl?
I've never felt like this about a girl, before
but everything - my heart, pounding and vulnerable and so impossibly fragile - now seems to depend on
her laughter is like the colour yellow
and it turns my vision hazy every time
the expression she wears is innocent and unassuming
but those hazel eyes are white-hot fire
she's got this rosewood hair that floats around her, ethereal,
her hands are gentle, delicate
her heart is so full of love
her arms, filled with kidness
she turns the blood in my veins to crackling flames.
look at her mouth.
what can I say. how can I vocalize this kind of want. this kind of hunger.

I'd never tell. no, I'd never say a word.
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