winding
spinning
grasping
sinning
follow the motions
read them aloud

the flick at the end
of your lowercase d
ignites me
when you say
you're aroused

whipping
digging
curving
and looping
i study your prose
nectar trickling down

body curved like a c
lips pursed patiently
my dear,

how are your o's so perfectly round?

rhythmic
shaking
stirring
quaking
the stroke of your pen
is all i can see

without physicality
my floodgates are opened
with poetry
you stroke me

Once upon a time, I was all about the pretty boys.

the kinds that walked me through my dreams, 
the kinds that plucked me from my wreckage like the springtime roses they'd leave on my doorstep. 


and they kissed me so kindly that falling in love was no longer sacred, and the smolder of victory in their eyes soon outshone our lovely moon.



but I would wake each morning with names on my lips that evaporated in the daylight, 

and just before I'd go, I'd confess to my bedroom ceiling that i still wanted someone more.

And then, by some miracle mapped out in stars, I followed a path that led to you.



And oh God, music hasn't sounded as sweet since the moment I heard your voice. 

Your laughter chases every nervous beat of my heart, your eyes hold constellations that make it easy enough to feel infinite as long as my gaze stays locked with yours. 



You make me feel fluorescent, the darkness has never felt so safe. With the memory of you in my near-present, there's no danger I cannot face. 

And I long so stupidly to fold and unfold myself in the spaces between your fingers.

 To taste the gold on your lips would make me the richest in spirit that I have ever been. 



And I can't deny, it would be heaven to stroke my hands through your hair and whisper while you're close, "oh darling, don't you know, 
you were art long before i began to admire you,"



This ecstasy you give has touched me deep within my bones. 

And I'm shocked you haven't heard this one before, it's a tale as old as time.

You linger like the softest whisper in the furthest corners of my mind.

every time you teach her that masculinity is strength,
you put a nail in her newborn coffin.
because you have taught her that she is simply an extra to a man's story,
she will wander hopelessly trying to find that strength in men who will only give her half-truths.
she will endure pain because she is nothing but a weak willed woman.

every time you teach him that feminity is weakness,
you have tied the noose for his little neck.
because he will always put himself down because he should be a man not a boy and weakness just doesn't fit in that box,
he will never learn how crying is an artform.
he will forever be a boy.

so keep your bigoted ideologies inside and throw away the key,
because the greatest gift you could give to your darling is to be free.

"But why don't we have straight pride?"
"I don't mind them really, I'd just rather they didn't shove it down my throat".
"Did you see those lesbians holding hands?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"

These moments are usually filled with silence. The room is suddenly so quiet, that I can almost hear my fear in the key holes, tucked away inside draws, behind laws, In the space between us.

I sit there and I swallow my pride. I swallow the thoughts of years of coming to terms with who I was and kissing boys to try and feel the way I was supposed to. I swallow walking down streets and staring at strangers, trying to figure out who I found the most attractive. I swallow every time I used to think to myself "It's not real. I'm making it all up. I'm not gay". I swallow the first time I said it out loud. I swallow the first time I was proud. I swallow the way I traced her freckles softly in the sunlight. I swallow the fights with my father and the tears behind closed doors. I swallow the stares in public and the glares and hushed whispers that stayed with me for days. I swallow every time someone would say "but you don't look gay". I swallow being told I can't take a joke. I swallow teachers talking about "homosexuals" as if there were none sitting in the room before them. I swallow being myself. I swallow the very essence of who I am. I swallow loving who I am. I swallow reclaiming the word lesbian, the word that used to sound like a slur. Like a ***** piece of language that only lived in **** videos and his wastepaper bin. I swallow falling in love with women. I swallow each time I stared at my body, and didn't recognise myself. I swallow all the shame in the world. I swallow my pride.

But then fifty voices are swallowed. One hundred loving hands. Two thousand threckles. 20 different countries. 1 million breaths. Fifty hearts whose beats echoed in pride.

And suddenly, I stop swallowing, and start living. For they can take our lives, but they will not take our pride.

No, you cannot join in.
Unless of course you also want the backlash that comes with kissing girls in public?
Take it-
please
share the homophobia.
I have had enough to last me 18 years of shame

no, this is not a game and you do not have the right to take photographs of me while I kiss her.
Unless of course you are a photographer  
here to celebrate our queer love in all of it’s natural beauty.  
For my love does not exist for your enjoyment
we are not the characters in your fantasy novel
my love is magical and you cannot publish it.
My love rains all over your non existent parade because your homophobia does not exist at pride

wide-eyed boys
encircle us as if to say that our mouths brush only so that they  
can paint the picture,
but you do not belong within my self portrait
you will not dip your ***** brush into my rainbow coloured paint set.
Clean your homophobia into the water
for our love is art
but you are not the artist
and my love is not yours to keep for later  
for wanking your anxieties into pleasure whilst you turn my pleasure, into anxiety.
This, is plagiarism.

Copyright my love.
For I should not have to be aware of who is watching
or pointing or shouting or stealing, my love.
So put your hand down your pants and think of your homophobia.  
No, you can’t come now
no, you cannot join in.