“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.
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.
Her genitalthe big "WHY" Oh! She's born of a ******. Her ******* a call to say"HI" Her voicea well to exploit from. And her physiquejust 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