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PAVANI 1d
This vessel shivers
under all of the heavy fabric
while the mind hopes for
something so sapphic

Make this vessel yours
free it from the mean fabric
make it yours to protect, yours to touch
add a little of your warmth
you know just how much
cc Sep 22
we were sixteen when you kissed me.
to be particular
we were sixteen when you held me from behind,
trembling like a chihuahua
when you were staying the night at my house,
our friend asleep on the mattress next to us
when you nudged my cheek with your nose,
breath hot and chilling on my face
when I thought you were trying to kiss me,
but I knew that was impossible

we were sixteen when I called you.
to be particular
we were sixteen when I couldn't sleep all night,
sick with paranoia and doubt
when I called you nearly in tears,
because I thought I had made it all up
when you refused to say anything about it,
other than to not tell anyone else
when I cried for the first time in years,
alone and afraid and hating myself for believing

we were seventeen when you got a girlfriend.
to be particular
we were seventeen when you came out to our friends,
by dropping hints they were too oblivious for
when you stopped talking to us all for weeks,
before you told us that you got a girlfriend
when you couldn't spend friday afternoons with me,
because those were date nights
when I realized that I was just your experiment,
out and too ugly to actually date

we were seventeen when I didn't love you.
to be particular
we were seventeen when I knew that I was hurt,
though not actually heartbroken
when I knew that I hadn't loved you like that,
yet you still broke my trust
when you broke up with your girlfriend,
and you could finally find time for me again
when all you talked about was finding a guy,
but never asked about me

we will be eighteen when I will still be me.
to be particular
we will be eighteen when a few months have passed,
applied to college and nearly free
when I will still be out and ugly and undesirable me,
and maybe you will still be you
when you will rant about getting a date to prom,
and I will listen to it all
when you get a new boyfriend or girlfriend,
and I will come second and still smile for you

we will be nineteen when we're off at college.
to be particular
we will be nineteen when we are hundreds of miles apart,
or maybe in the bunk beds next to each other
when I will still be unlovable and unwanted,
paying an entrance fee at frat parties
when you will find new friends to be with,
who are cooler and more fun
when I won't ever cross your mind,
but I will still think of you

we will be twenty-five when you are happy.
to be particular
we will be twenty-five when you're in a relationship,
happy and fulfilled and excited
when you're an artist or architect or anything else,
and I'm still in school for a PhD
when you have long moved on from us,
not remembering that we were ever sixteen
when I am still the ‘am I gay’ quiz,
because you kissed me for no reason at sixteen

we will be thirty when I will kiss you.
to be particular
we will be thirty when it is your wedding day,
and I was a last minute invitation
when I catch you at the reception after your dances,
to give you a hug and a smile and a kiss on the cheek
when you are starting your family with a husband or wife,
and I have two diplomas and two cats to my name
when I will finally be happy,
but will never forget that we were once sixteen

you will be sixty when you call me.
to be particular
you will be sixty when you remember when you were sixteen,
and you think back on a girl you once knew
when you try my old number but the line is disconnected,
because you remembered it wrong
when you try to stalk me on linkedin with no success,
because you can't write remember my last name
when you find a eulogy from twenty years before,
because I don't think I'll make it that long

we will be long dead when meet each other.
to be particular
we will be long dead when I stumble upon you,
in the afterlife I never believed in
when I look at the sixteen year old I never forgot,
and you stare back at a near stranger
when I introduce myself and you remember me,
weeping for the friend you outgrew
when I tell you you were my best friend,
and I wish you never kissed me
a story about a friend who will one day outgrow me
Nicola Berry Sep 9
Rain soaks our clothes, leaves us breathless and cleansed.
The lights bounce and shimmer; a thousand lights on us.
Coppery and acidic, but it doesn’t overpower the taste of you.
Drunken girls laugh into the night like gulls in the morning.

Ignore the looks; kiss me, put your lips on mine.
Smear my pink lipstick, make your pretty red stick.
Fist my sweater and pull my heart out; keep it with yours.
Tug the strands of my hair, pull me closer; don’t let the divider in.

It’s cold in the rain, so mingle our breaths
and create hot, steamy fog to keep us warm.
The lights are on us, but **** it; let’s give ’em a show.
They want the rain to drown us; let’s slow dance.

Hold my waist, reel me in like a love song.
Sip my lips like cheap beer, savour me like wine.
Bruise me like a peach; kiss it better.
Feel the wind sting our cheeks; try to blow out our flame.

Whispering in my ear, he’s looking, isn’t he?
Kissing the frown from your lips, yes, he is. Who cares?
Let the hateful ******* sneer and scorn.
I’ll still love my lover in this storm.
Asmita Ray Aug 27
We played a game,
Where neither of us--tell a name
And yet, submerge in a ravine of shame.

We agreed to this perilous gamble
In a morbid hope of a beast to tame;

Which crawls beneath my skin
Set to devour everything akin--
       To happiness and love,
That was stowed away hidden
      In a secret trove.
Long ago they climbed
Promised to catch each other
Fallen death closed arms
Gh0ski3 Aug 24
I can feel the peering glances from a world that watches in black and white
Still, I hold your hand, unwilling and defiant,
When I kiss you in hues their screens cannot colorize

How can I embrace you outside of these mindless walls?
Walls that have been breaking and burning since they were built, and yet refuse to let us pass or even slip through without the correct passcode

I hear stories of our recorded tragedies, under the name of progression without action...
Without promise

If you find the courage, hold my hand, and let me guide you across the silken web high up in the sky
Rope strung by an audience of unblinking eyes that follow and stare, waiting for the DROP!

But even with the attention of fleeting bystanders, I'll whisper to you, through our unknown reputations,
“Secrets aren’t meant for lovers”

My dear, do not look back, nor fall victim to the mobs that rage behind glass curtains
I’m here to help you wave your pride along the double spaced lines they had set for us,
To show them a place, unimaginable, in the streets outside of the dim lit closet that had consumed our being

Will you love me honestly?
Without keeping me incognito on the tabs of your laptop,
And make our history public for all of those who wish to watch in color

I pity the people who’ve switched their channels to grayscale
So that they may ignore the other pigments in the color wheel
But one day, they will learn to accept us before the roaring cloud
As your love in every combination of red, green, blue finds itself in the storage of my soul
This one is definitely one of my favorites, especially the last part
PAVANI Mar 14
Oh dear lover of mine
you're like a bottle of
my favorite wine

One sip is never enough
to know what you're like
Sip after sip, I realize
somehow, we're oh so alike

Few more sips and I'm
drunk on you
I'm dizzy but I take
yet another sip or two

You're hard to put down
I chug all of you
Could teach your shadow
a thing or two
for I now know
all of you

I love you
BLD Jan 4
The sun never rises here, the moon never falls,
despite the nightly intrusion of thoughts
that never seem to expire into the current.

Two birds screech above but I do not listen:
“Our religion is one of love,” they tell me
while they slam the door in my face
to go and vote for a straight man elated
to erase the love I have for nobody but me.

“Church is the only path to Salvation,” he tells me
after a night spent in my hometown bed;
hypocrisy is the root embedded throughout the forest
of Fatherly Love, created only to benefit those
normal enough to write the rules
before anyone else could…
                                                  How convenient.
Our Father makes no mistake
and carefully creates us all,
yet my love is seen as a ******* painted onto
a blank canvas thrown across a rusted floor.

“A genetic error,” say the men who later imagine
the ache of my nails digging deep into
their rugged, tightened backs;
the wedding ring on their finger
refracts the light of the bathroom mirror
as cans of crushed beer pile high
in the trash strewn
on the ground behind them...
                                                  So many frauds.
I live my days on the edge of whitewashed insanity,
yet forever closing my eyes to darkness
is a life I wish not live:
the mothers who birthed us to fade into the grave,
the love they lent evaporating upon expiration,
our fathers who protected us far removed,
their eyes forever closed, their life no more.
I cannot fade into nothing, this I won’t believe…
                                                                                      So hopeless.
The God I love does not punish
those defying the rules He’d always known
would one day be certainly shattered;
He does not make me love men
and sentence me to die in the same command
despite the thousands of hymns I whispered
in the solace of my childhood room.

He does not send men to sleep at night
and force them to question what they feel—
tossing the sour taste into the background,
ignoring the truth of the real me…  
                                                             How cruel.
The God I know made me the way I am
and is proud of me for taking it in stride.

He does not wish to see me change --  
He frowns at the men desiring revenge
on us who wish to be left alone --  
we do not need your opinion,
we do not need your love,
we do not need your thoughts or your prayers,
for the God I love welcomes me with open arms
unlike the multitude of others I no longer remember…
                                                                                          So unimportant.
BLD Jan 3
My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

My stomach churns like the deck of a ship
amid a raging mid-Atlantic tempest,
its bowels tender and full of friction,
a morose resentment of an azure message sent.

The Dungan name supports its own;
the pain of one is felt by the majority,
an empathetic woe of a blessing understated,
our emotional reason ranging far and true.

One text sent and the world turns dim;
I've tried to manage the mania and valleys
of the experiences endemic to our core,
but the truth remains that I've not healed at all.

I can envision the late New York nights,
our Hoboken studio glimmering in the sunset,
the white walls imprinted with our fingertips;
open bottles of wine half-drank scattered around
while the subway roars underneath the Hudson
as it zips to a jolting halt.

Meanwhile, the scars embedding my skin
have healed themselves through and clear,
yet the bruises around the perimeter remain,
their coarse outlines distant reminders
of the pitfalls of the love we once shared.

Fire and ice juxtapose into a glass of lager,
a cool glide down the warm embrace of my throat;
nightly cocktails of Lexapro, Lamictal, and Hydroxyzine
haven't succeeded in easing the terrors
plaguing my core in the brightest of nights --
it is surmisable that these wounds are lethal,
but I refuse to succumb once more to your flaws.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

Whether it lay with your father and his bourbon
or your mother and her manipulating lies
or your brother and his ignorant resolutions
or your friends and their misogynistic gazes,
I cannot say,
yet I felt compelled to outstretch my fingertips
as a solemn branch of the willow tree
waving in the wind, scattering in the breeze,
an innocent attempt to brush aside the despondency,
a sprout into maturity to digress from the winds
raging between us while residing so far apart.

Never truly have I possessed a hatred so seething
than the alps of brimstone in the frame of you.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

Perhaps I should have remained in oblivion,
restrained myself from the shackles of your presence.
Still, I refuse to conform to the demands of those
unaware of the true nature of my nightmares,
their benevolent intentions disregarding my truth,
white wisps of flowers stained with brutal crimson,
inching its way down the crevices of my mouth
while I reel away and encapsulate the open flesh
I'd just bitten through with this impulsive decision.  

But still...
my mother could not find her camera,
and I'd only wondered
if I'd left it with you.
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