You're not like the other girls I've loved
Your laugh is like the embodiment of summer
Warm weather and flowers blooming
Two girls with sun kissed skin and strawberry lips, that's us
Please don't ever go away my love
I don't think I could stand it if you did
It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind butt-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of tits holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, scissoring, strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing hymen- tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to suck your dick even though you will not go anywhere near her clit. You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: fuck off.
No, you cannot join in.
Unless of course you also want the backlash that comes with kissing girls in public?
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
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 dirty 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.
On independent people
Especially when they’re women—
Especially when they’re you.
You, with your
High-pitched laugh and your
Dark hair up and your
Pride loud but your
Voice louder and
I am dependent
And most days I repent it
To have my body and
have your head and—
And that’s, you say,
What you like in me.
That’s the takeaway:
Not the late nights spent
Holding you or the
Times I went
To comfort you
Or the energy used
To convince you
Enough, I said
On the floor
I told myself
I couldn’t do this
Am a person
Not a therapist
A construction worker
And us but
Even I can’t fix a
Although sometimes I’d like to—
Especially when you look at me the way you do and
Lift my skirt and break the rules
And scream louder than
You ghost-like figure
Presence-less, you sometimes-mess
And yet I insist to
but you’re the one who will haunt me
through and through,
You and your fucked-up ways
There is not space for me
But then I remember
The way you defy
and every time
that you are afraid
For your life
But let me tell you
So am I
Afraid for my heart when we’re apart
But lately also
When we are together.
See, I knew this wasn’t forever
But I thought the end was yet to come,
Or I guess maybe it was
Right at the start—
The first time you kissed me
And the first time I missed you
When you didn’t miss me,
And now you have me here
In this space
A basket case—
I wasn’t here
I wasn’t queer
That maybe if I found a man
I could spare myself this
Late-night pain and
I will find a husband and
A house to stay in with
a white-picket fence and
that I am numb so that
I won’t feel happiness
but I won’t feel loss
I won’t feel like this
So here I am and
Although it’s different this time around
I am still bound
by my roots
And my wounds and my soul.
This may make me dependent but at least
When I said I loved you I meant it—
Yes, I am in love with you,
From the start, everyone knew
And they told me to
And run I did
Right toward you
You, my gone-too-soon,
And I am
To be the ‘other’
It’s the new black, haven’t you heard?
Everyone is doing it now.
Such a sweet memory—
walking down the street
And being stabbed;
There’s a sweet melancholy
In being called ‘abomination’ and ‘bad.’
It’s 2 a.m.
She was a poet and
Her poetry spoke;
It was beautiful,
But it wasn’t quite her.
You see, you can’t sell something if
you’re queer or
And if you’re both, well, then you’re
Out of luck.
Yes, her poetry spoke but
was always herself
And never her lover;
They always told me
There’s a whole world out there to discover—
But only if you’re straight.
Otherwise, you’ll have to do it
Listen, it’s not me
But the neighbors don’t want to be bothered.
So her poetry spoke but
Not with her voice.
Because, after all,
being gay was a choice
And others don’t want to be troubled.
But what if they discovered
What it means to be the ‘other’?
I guess we’ll never know.
s-these aren't words to say in church.
A flower bloomed in your hair as I
I loved you. your
chest rose up to my face as i lay,
you had taken my breath away.
The tattered book scattered through
my mind as you whisper
into the night’s ears.
I remember winning bible study challenge
in fifth grade
then losing my faith in eighth,
I can honestly now say,
you calling out my name
you calling out his name
brought me back.
Kisses land all over your body
reminds me of when I first started playing music,
a metronome played on beat,
as you breathed in rhythm,
I dreamt of this,
many times in
I dreamt of kissing you,
our hearts never synchronized
but right on
Our respected parts.
You’ve traveled to the corners of my mind and into my deepest thoughts.
I never thought anyone would make it that far without ever touching me.
You’ve blushed at the way I put these words together, and
trust me, if you let me keep this up it can go on forever.
And I don’t mean forever as we’ll be together
because I know for a fact
the statistics about high school couples,
I looked them up. Perhaps I’m being presumptuous.
Perhaps I’m thinking too far ahead, because you haven’t even
asked me on a date yet and I’m thinking of you past friendly,
going to poetry written about you,
talk about hitting on you like you were my woman crush Wednesday
but I can't anymore,
You're my woman crush everyday.
I listen to love poems as if they were meant for me and you and
golly gee if I could,
I’d paint a thousand portraits,
take up my whole SD card in my camera,
Just so you see your beauty in my eyes
Dye my hair into your favorite color
because it puts me closer to you.
I hardly feel lonely anymore.
You’re in the shadows of my poetry, the goal for 2018,
I can’t wait to get honor roll so you can give me that hug and say
you’re proud, because that’s all the motivation I need.
And can I just say,
my medication alters my mood, but it never alters it enough for me to forget what makes me happy naturally,
what makes me smile when I can’t seem to do it myself; will you be my
daily dose of prozac?
Doctors prescribed 50 ml grams a day but 50 minutes a day hearing you say my name is good enough too.
You’ve gotten me down to a science.
I sutter thinking about you asking me on a date and you
blush at me telling you the truth;
what does that tell us about our past lovers?
Is it alright I see you covered in a sweet truth over romanticized by my words?
Is it alright I say your name like Christians talk about Jesus and hope on our seventh day we create passion?
if you were a word,
you’d be whatever means indescribable feeling between two people;
if you were a song I’d like you to be My Girl,
if I were a ship I’d be the love boat
because I’m making another round tonight and you are welcome aboard, you are always welcome
because I am in trouble & you like that.
You love me being in this kind of trouble.
To you, it means I’m already yours.
I like you already but
if you let me I could fall in
deep, deep liking
I need you to stop doing whatever it is you are, because if you don’t, one of us will mess around and fall in love.