i wish i never liked women, there’s so much going against it anyway. i’m a coward. i hate myself. i hate myself for wanting to be selfish, while knowing in the same thought that i’m the most selfish woman in my life. but if being selfish means someday i could look into your eyes several sunrises in a row, it couldn’t possibly be that bad. to see the meadows of wheat surrounded by moss in your eyes makes art from here to infinity look like mud. i would untangle the thorniest bush i could find if it meant your heart was in the middle. i can already imagine my thumb brushing a smile onto your lips, my hand cupping your cheek, while the softest nothings are exchanged. the thought of you, and everything you come with moving into my life sounds like a dream. but it’s not one to come true. i don’t get to let myself get lost in your eyes, running through meadows. my head knows that, my heart strings still wail, i try to quiet them. give them a drink… or a few. but after the glass is empty they no longer have anything to occupy them. and they sing your name again

Thick thighs
I would love to feel them beneath my hands
press my hands against you
feel your body beneath mine
and hear your cry

the way I stared at your thighs
your tattoos
the dragon
oh how much
I wanted to taste you
in that moment
make you more than a friend to me
and in the way you smiled at me
and said I'd love to date you ,
alas it was never meant to be,
so now I am only left with
my hurting lonely heart
wandering about you
and feeling the ache
of wanting my hand
in between your thighs
and your kisses in the
moonlight under the moonlight
for I wanted you to
be my first girl lover
but alas my bisexual desires
are still only just that
desires .

Find me tearing violets, my love,
in a manic daze; I am running out of softness and daylight,
like winter’s cruel hours


“but I will crown your hair with these torn violet tiaras
and your soft throat, twine with woven garlands”


and I will dig into my tongue for the remaining metaphors
beneath the bourbon, until odes drench my lips,
I will stitch my wounds shut and ready for your apricot kisses —
I ache to be kissed away,
to waste away before your sun-speckled eyes
like a tiny fae in your flower basket, I ache to settle
in your dainty hands,
in lithe fingers lost in my wind-blown hair.


My November, my gentlest love,
how I breathe you in like my grandmother’s letters —
how you consume me
in curious ways
and for the first time, I am not afraid of the softness
buried and warm inside my bone marrows.


Tell me, darling, will you stay?
Will we stay
this time
for more than a kiss?
Will we linger longer
than silhouettes in a dream?

To be loved or
To love
Must we choose?

I am the beloved
Yet I see myself from only within looking out
And believe I
   am just the lover

Unchoosing to be both

In spite of, and thanks to my experience
I believe in the moments where we are both the beloved

Those moments fade
Into cool memories
Cozy in my mind

Until they become stinging cold
Like when my bare foot crunches down into the thin layer of snow halfway the drive to get the mail

Oh how it feels to be the lover
Oh how it feels to be the loved
The lover finds ecstasy in their beloved
Why then must the lover expect anything from the beloved?
Is the gift not in the experience of loving?

What is it to be desired
If you do not know desire yourself?

Will we be ever be satisfied?

I surely hope not.