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“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks
“Their name’s Bea,” I reply
“I support that,” they hesitate
“You are so brave.” they add

I never saw their lips as a political statement
Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat
while a friend is puking by the side of the road
Was some kind of revolution

How romantic is it
That our story will be etched
Not in some Neruda poetry book
But a professor’s first textbook
Or a college student’s 2 am essay

When I said I was in love
You thought it meant I was hungry
Not for touch or for pleasure
But for justice and freedom
I didn’t know that
When I run my fingers down her neck
It would be tied to a long Twitter thread

I never saw my love as a battleground
A metaphysical exploration of sexuality
What’s Marxist about the way their eyes
disappear when they smile?
What’s so intersectional about
Our entanglement at the back seat
Or our hands holding in front

I never thought I would be so brave
At my most fragile state
So political
In my most dumbstruck ways
So woke
When I’m asleep in her embrace
What it feels like to be in a queer relationship. Your whole relationship becomes a political discussion. And while I love a discussion, sometimes I just want to love.
Jay 4d
Oh, {deadname},

You're my beautiful daughter.
I know you're only lying.
You'll never, ever be a boy
No matter how long you keep trying.

Give up on transitioning.
Your mind has been poisoned.
The media has consumed you-
All the lies eating their way in.

Finally, you are my precious baby girl.
You're very smart, and you know that.
Don't think you're a boy- you're not.
You should put on your smiling mask

Until you're not sick anymore,

-Your loving mother
I want to leave this house... It hurts to look at myself.
Back then at school,
We had life-skills-
Every week we would be taught, the girls,
Handicrafts by a gentle, lady-like woman.
They taught us macramé, well after it went out of style.
How to unravel and tie-up spools and spools of thread-
Into fancy knots and whirls.
You could hang it on your ceiling
Just beneath the fan, or over your bed.

Then there was the letter box,
Made out of cardboard and wrapping paper.
But not to hang outside, of course.
The glue would dissolve in the rain water.
And the letters would all cry out in jets of blue ink.

Speaking of ink, we made a miniscule brush
Out of old, old pens
And human hair.
It measured about four inches
And you could clean the ridges between tiles
With it,
or brush your moustache
if you had one.
The class was always there
You couldn’t skip it, miss it or play truant.
Life-skills, you will need them when you grow
And you’ll thank me when you flaunt-
Them to your cynical mothers- in-law.

Nipuni Ranaweera
KyleB Apr 11
They say
She says
He says

Some say “it“ but are do not mean well.

You say “whatever“
And call yourself a bread
A sandwich.

You joke, you giggle.
I make it real.

Taking things serious,
Taking things literal,
Is a talent of mine.

But the idea of identity
It is a story of yours

These pronouns
Fresh like bread
Wholesome like wheat
Savory like heat
They are just like you

When nothing works
When all feels wrong
Sandwich will put a smile on you

And you
Might give a sandwich
to sandwir

A sandwich
is sandwirs

It is meant to be

Sandwich
Sandwir
Sandwir
Sandwirs
And sandwichself

The mania of grain and wheats
Will never be gone
just a joke poem between one of my partners and i, actually
"why can't I be a man that likes pink,

why can't I be a woman that likes to surf the wind,

why can't I be a man that cries tears of joy,

why can't I be a woman that's not a mommy

why can't I be a man, without toughening up,

why can't I just be

be a human"

Wutherings Bronte
https://www.instagram.com/wutheringsbronte/
Beckie Davies Mar 30
they told me that i was a girl
for i was wearing mascara and blush

they told me that i was a boy
for i was playing with trucks

they badgered me about my gender
they asked me where I fit in

i told them with wisdom that it was none of their business
my gender is not my identity
my gender is not who i am

they demanded to know what i am
i am a truck-loving, makeup-wearing human
female 💜
male💙
HUMAN❤💙💚💛🧡💜🖤
It's a Saturday night in fall
and I'm the only boy at the slumber party.

Our festivities begin outside,
the cool wind keeping our knees together
as we sit by the pool
and discuss how cool we'll be.

Inside, her parents eye me,
like the Terminator
scanning a potential threat.

We play charades
and twister
and paranoia,
and we laugh and judge and scream.

At 10 p.m. we're told to sleep,
and I sneak up stairs to meet the stirring girls
who giggle in anticipation.

They get to work.
They paint my nails,
They make me up,
and at some point of reflection I see
that
I can no longer see me for me.
We fall asleep.

When I awake,
White pillow caked with
black and fleshy pink,
my friends put me back how they found me -
The only boy at the slumber party.
The first time I wore nail polish, I hated it so much I picked it off! I was scared my fingers had disappeared.
Her genitalthe big "WHY"
Oh! She's born of a ******.
Her *******
a call to say"HI"
Her voicea well to exploit from.
And her physique
just to have fun.

Her gender role, no one questions
Even the feminists call for attention.
She keeps these, term uncultured.
She unseals these,  term a ****.

Obviously,  kissing is amazing.
Foreplay, Hnnnnn! So appealing.
Undoubtedly, *** is fascinating.
With pain,  how often she tries to fake the  moan.
She enjoys it much,  now a curse.

He walks up to her and says "I love you."
She believes him, he sounds so true.
He lores her to bed_ already in her loo.
When the stomach starts to push through,
He says to hell with you.

Fifteen minutes of pleasure.
Nine solid months in seizure.
Some days in the hospital.
A child without a paternal name. Isn't that fatal?
Such of a child a *******.
And the mother, a *****, who deserves not a ballad.
This poem simply depicts the vulnerability of the female gender and often they earn the blame game at every end of ****** displeasure to them
Femi Mar 21
I am love.
I am wealth.
I hold purity and grace in my belt.

I am strength.
I know pain.
I carry secrets and dreams in my name.

I am she.
She is black.
I hold no titles,
Just a monkey on my back.
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