Sad song

I cried that night, like I haven't cried
In years, contorted around my grief
To shield it from the jagged shadows
And cruel world, but I couldn't find relief.
There were no more words to wring out of our
Over tread conversations. For all my
Guile I couldn't find a way to tell you
I no longer loved you. I just cried
Until my tears were an ocean on the
Gray carpet and I tried to float away.
That night there was no light, no color, no
Respite. I suffered until dawn came and into the day.

Edit: I realize this is post #100! That's pretty cool. I'm pretty impressed with myself.

My heart belongs to another

And other things I wish people would stop saying to me:

"Not all men"
"All media is biased"
"We're looking for a fun girl to complete out triad"
"Im not a racist"
"I'm not racist but . . ."
"Is it your time of the month?"
"It's just how they were raised."
"That book is just a product of its time."
"They isn't a single use pronoun."
"Don't get hysterical."
"You're just being emotional"
"Let's be rational here."
"Being poly would make *me* miserable but I'm glad it works for you."
"You look so pretty when you smile. "
"I just shave because I like how my legs feel against clean sheets."
"I feel hurt when you generalize about white men. "
"When you generalize about white men, you're being racist."
"Affirmative action is racist."
"I can't be a feminist because I don't hate men."
"Why do you hate men?"
"There are only two genders."
"Young people today are just confused. "
"You date men? I thought you were gay."
"Why are you on birth control? I thought you were gay."
"Aren't you gay?"
"Aren't you straight?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Not everything is about politics, you know."
"I try not to get involved in politics"

Unsettled

Do you know the feeling in the pit
Of your stomach? You named it dread and
It made it's home among the un-
Digested bits of last nights dinner.
It hammered at your ribcage and
Twisted your intestines into some
Sailor knots you wish you knew how to
Tie. Do you remember how your feet
Could never seem to quite find a
Solid place on the ground and when a
Chipmunk rustled the bushes you would
Jump sideways, skittish and thinking of
Snakes, your eyes wide and your racing
Up your throat. Dread and you were always
Close, each whispering secrets to the
Other in your too small house, trying
To be heard over angry shouts. Dread
Walked you home when on one was there
To pick you up from the train and kept
Watch over your shoulder to make sure
No one followed you home. Sometimes dread
Is the most familiar face at
The party, more of a friend than a fear.

I'm not always this femme

A poem about gender identity, life, and ocelots

If I had to describe my aesthetic it would be hiking boots and hot red lipstick
Or else grass stained lace with flowers growing up out of it
For a long time I rejected this.
I had no need of soft things,
I saw only the weakness of a single petal of rose
And I wanted to be only the thorn bush.
I'm still perplexed by the duality of an ocelot
Both graceful and  pointed
I wish someone would teach me how to always land on my feet.
But after hours of un-learning
After hours of putting on lipstick in the mirror
Just to swipe it off again
And days of pulling skirts over leggings in small concessions to false modesty
And years of trying to catch the sunset under trees and through windows
I have learned there can be steel under finely latticed lace
I have learned there is no shame in loving sparkly jewelry and no virtue in loving dirt and tired muscles
And no contradiction to loving both.
After years of practice
I have learned there's no shame in being who I am.

Another poem not about him

I told him we’d run,

leave our lives in the dust

We’d take my red car

And we’d know wanderlust

In the faded blue gray of

Our tired blue jeans

In the shocking bright blue

Of the sky and the seams

Of horizon

Stretched out on the road

And the grease of the diner’s

Food, neon signs glow

Flashing “Open” far into

Velvet black night

We’d know wanderlust in

The trucker’s headlights.

The stars would watch over

The road down below

The rumble of car

As we outrun the snow

And the rain and the

Slush of our lives

On the road we’d be living

With my red car in drive.

A poem (not about him)

I don’t write poems about him.

Or, not anymore. Not since his

Eyes ceased to be firecrackers

And became optic nerves in

His head. His voice stopped being

A song and now moves through the air

In particle waves. I don’t

Write poems about the way his

Hands remind me of my glasses

They snap the world into

A clarity I take for

Granted. I forget the verse

In Shakespeare’s love poem where he

Writes about farting in front

Of his lover. About  the

Lazy mornings savoring

The taste of last night. About

Leaving with the certainty

I’ll be back in a few days time.

I forget the poetry of

Doing the dishes together,

Of knowing his movements so well

That we dance around each other

In his tiny kitchen.

I don’t write poems about him.

But I haven’t stopped loving him.

A love poem

A love poem.

I think the way your lips would feel on my neck

Would be like snowflakes landing on your face

I think we could go out to coffee and I would drown

In your eyes and drink in your laugh

I think your curls would bend into my hands

As leaves on the wind.

And your smile would be the brights in my rearview mirror

Blinding but so beautiful my eyes tear up.

But all this would be

If I had gotten your number

Before you got up and walked off the subway.