lgbt-poetry

“It’s A Phase”

Is what you told me when I fell for her smile,

When my heart sped up at the sound of her voice.

“It’s a phase”

You told me when I was seven,

And asking why those girls were kissing behind the store.

“It’s a phase”

You said when I came out to you,

Your eyes filled with tears and your voice shaking with anger.

“It’s a phase”

You told me,

And had I grown with hate in my heart and doubt in mind,

I’d believe you.

“It’s a phase”

You will say,

Spitting venom followed by soft lullabies.

“It’s a phase”

You will argue,

Panic flaring in your thoughts

When she takes my hand and kisses my cheek.

“It’s a phase”

You can tell me,

Even while I’m walking down the aisle to take her hand.

But love is not a phase,

Though I pray your hate is.

Today I called myself a lesbian out loud for the first time in my life

I’ve done everything possible to avoid describing myself with that word. Used every shortcut imaginable

Stuck my head in the ground like a flamingo and changed the subject like a politician every time someone asked

I’ve said I like girls. Worn it proudly across my chest like a badge of honor, but in an ambiguous way because I don’t want you to say I’m shoving it in your face

I’ve called myself sapphic, prioritized women, talked about my crushes on girls – but never in detail because I’ve been so afraid to come off as a wolf starving for the poor innocent herd of lambs at the local farm

I’ve had sex with girls, but often with boys present to make it socially acceptable to touch and taste and get lost in the wonderland that is another woman

I’ve written poetry describing pure, virtuous, chaste and sexless love between two women, but never about the desire to touch, the eye that wanders for a little too long to be accidental, the feeling of just right as her hands pull on my hair

I’ve called myself a lesbian on screen. Written that word down so many times that I barely think about it any more. I’m unapologetic until I’m not

Until I stutter out another excuse as to why I don’t want to be with the boy with the kind eyes and the shy smile who cannot take a god damn hint

Until I’m the only girl in the room and I’m aware that the only lesbians the majority of these men have seen are in porn and that “I’m a lesbian” doesn’t mean “stay away” to them, it means “try harder”

Until my grandfather participates in a conversation with someone else at a family dinner about how he’s tired of having The Gays shoved in his face by the media, even though he’s met my ex girlfriend

Until I hear yet another tasteless and homophobic joke at the dinner table from yet another person that I have to cross out from my very short list of people I know I can trust

Until a female friend of mine wraps her arms around me in a tight hug and I’m not out to her and I can’t help but feel guilty about how good I think she smells

And am I really unapologetic if I’m only unapologetic when it feels safe to be?

So when I described myself as a lesbian today, I stuttered through it even though I wanted to sound casual and calm and act like it was no big deal. Like every single person I’ve heard use it as an insult and spit it out like it’s stale food weren’t running through my head at that very moment

Like I am unashamed of every single girl who’s made my heart pick of speed, of every time I’ve caught myself staring at one of them for a little too long and wondered what her lips taste like

Like it might be one day

—  Confession of an unapologetic lesbian, Charlie W
“What’s your type?”
I’ve never actually thought about it.
I fall in love with moments.
Phrases.
The way the light catches their eyes when they tell me their story.
Maybe that’s why they call me selfish.
My pansexuality must just be my greed.
I want to experience all forms of love.
No matter the gender or type….
I don’t know how to love just one type.
But if I had to find a common theme.
I think it would go like this.
With boys I’ve noticed this:
Their smiles. Soft and warm.
They don’t invite me in but instead project the love outward.
They’re quiet. I do most of the talking.
Without saying a word they can draw every story I have out of me.
Like a snake charmer, the soft uncommonly heard sound of their voice draws me in and their eyes full of wonder make me stay.
With girls it’s a little something like this:
Their laugh gets me.
The soft melody just causes my heart to burst.
My cheeks redden and I can’t think.
Girls are fiery. They rule the world and they know it.
Their hands could hold my future if they wanted to-
The softness of their palms could keep me safe for years.
Her song could lull me into a coma-like sleep filled with dreams of her smile.
Girls who love girls know just how to love me.
Speak softly but with purpose.
Whisper to me the sweet nothings I have been so afraid to tell you because I’m afraid you might not be thinking them too.
Hold me tightly with those hands.
Keep me safe in your laughter.
For those in between it’s simple-
I don’t have an actual real type: sporty, nerdy, bookish, poetic, or shy.
Any one of them would be fine by me.
As long as their words can capture me for hours; even if it’s just one phrase.
As long as their eyes can tell me the stories of their past because I’d love to listen.
As long as their ears are ready to listen to the miles and miles of stories I have to share with them.
I don’t think I have a type.
But if I had to pick,
I think my type would be someone like you.
—  Hey, You Asked What My Type Is;L.L.

her colors are muted and she looks tired.
‘holding up,’ she says,
and i’m just holding up too but god, this contrast;
light and dark,
soft and bold,
melancholy and anger,
beauty and the furthest thing from it.
she is unsettling, yet…
not in a bad way.
not at all.

and she is lovely.
her eyes are gentle,
blue like twilight
(and i understand for the first time why
they’re supposed to be the windows to the soul).
her hair is not spun gold
and she doesn’t shine like the sun;
she is the moon in all its glory.
the kind of light she carries cannot be explained–
it’s in her bones and the way she walks,
and the way she speaks.
soft,
like she doesn’t want to be seen or heard.

but she is beautiful.

god built the universe
with a voice like that.

—  when a girl loves a girl the stars fall to the earth.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. What are you doing here? You’re like a flower growing in the crack of a sidewalk, or a piece of art inside a dull museum. You’ll do so much. I see it. I see the good side of the world when I look at you.”

My thoughts when I see her walking by ( @late-nights-and-daydreams )

MY MOTHER ASKED ME TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER
 
  1
 
  When my best friend was a child,
  her mother used The Game of Life
  as a metaphor to explain sexuality.
 
  “You can have two pink guys
  or two blue guys, you know,”
she explained.
 
  My best friend is so straight,
  she doesn’t even masturbate.
 
  Still, she always knew that even
  if she wasn’t, even if someday she ended up
  shotgun to another pink piece,
 
  she would remain loved and supported.
 
  She wouldn’t have to ask for forgiveness.
  Of all the things she was taught to apologize for,
  love has never been one of them.
 
  2
 
  My mother doesn’t bring up my sexuality
  anymore. I think she is tired of arguing.
 
  She is sick of reading about her faults
  in my poetry. She hates my selective memory;
  how I only remember the sharp things,
  the slammed doors, the heavy whiskey.
 
  “I used to sing to you before bed
  every night,”
she reminds me icily.
  “but you must’ve forgotten that story.”
 
  Last week, she silently folded up her old flannels
  and placed them at the foot of my bed.
 
  I know this is probably just a coincidence,
  not a peace treaty or an attempt to understand me.
 
  But for my own well-being,
  I have to take this as a sign she is trying,
 
  even if it isn’t.
—  MY MOTHER ASKED ME TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER, by Blythe Baird.

you can fall in love with
many things, with her.

the way that she smiles
when she sees me come in
or how her hair smells like
honey when she uses her
favourite shampoo.

the way that the stress falls
from her shoulders when she
hears the rain tapping on the
window; or how she sings so
beautifully and honestly in the
shower - convinced that no-one
can hear her.

the way that she dances
just for me - or how she kisses
my head as she pulls me closer
and closer to her chest.

and despite all of these,
my favourite thing to love
is the way that she carried
on moving mountains when
others didn’t dare to climb.

—  It’s easy to love her - Robyn Louise Harp

i see him and my heart races.
i see her and my heart breaks.

i have kissed his lips and it felt like death and life all at once.
i have kissed her lips and it felt like sleeping and waking up all at once.

i craved his skin and begged for his body to collide with mine.
i lusted after her every time those rosy lips spoke my name.

when i lay beneath him it felt like heaven and hell and everything that i loved.
when i lay beneath her there was so much desire and passion it set my lungs alight.

people saw me with him and saw nothing but teenagers in love.
people saw me with her and saw nothing but young sinners.

“are you straight?”
i don’t know.

“are you a lesbian?”
i don’t know.

is that all i can be?

— why should i have to choose? // j.r.

Pastel rose
purple veins // pink petals.
Paint me a picture
of vintage hues;
imbue me with shades of blue -
shades of beauty to get me through.
((The nights are full of Déjà vu))
I’m blue again, blue over you,
so paint me something pretty to view;
my eyes cry, but tears disappear too…
Just like you,
just like you.


Picture & poem by
©@rarasworldbro

This is a kind of love that not many
others understand. 

You call her Cinderella,
like she is a miracle for simply existing.
Like she is miracle for still growing,
for still being kind, for still caring.
Like her softness is a natural wonder
all on its own.

She calls you Ariel,
as though she is a whole new world
that you never thought you would
be a part of.

As if you both wear the other’s
heart like a goddamn crown.

The first time you kissed her she 
gave her body to you with a quiet,
desperate sort of surrender. The first
time she kissed you, you smudged
your lipstick on her lips, her cheeks,
her eyelids, and she laughed into your mouth.

How clumsy this love is.
How innocent.

How beautiful, how tender, how soft.
You, mermaid with a tail full of forgiveness.
Her, princess with a body full of forgetfulness.

—  FOR THE GIRLS WHO LIKE GIRLS by Darshana Suresh

two girls.
no guns.
no gods.
no guillotines.

two girls.
no politics.
no policies.
no picket lines.

two girls.
two hopes.
two hearts.
two histories

two girls.

—  the right to love depoliticized. // s.j.h.

last night i had a dream i was seven.

my hair was long,

my front teeth where missing

and my pink nightdress had blood stains and earth meshed into it.

the forest was dense and i was crying,

my bare little feet cut themselves on the thorns as i ran helpless.

i passed out by the hyacinths and the bluebells

until i saw a young man ride towards me on a horse,

i sat and watched as he drew closer.

his hair was long

wild and untamed

and his eyes where warm and dark,

he wore a suit of armour with a Ruby encrusted sword at his waist.

he dismounted his horse and took me into his arms.

‘be big, be brave’ he murmured

he gave me his sword and wiped my tears from face, and kissed my forehead gently

he told me that i am my own hero,

no handsome prince is coming for me.

he told me i must fight as much

as my little heart can take.

'it’ll be worth it’

he promises as he kisses my hand.

the sword feels heavy in my child arms

as he mounts the horse.

'who are you?’ i called out

he smiles lovingly

and rides back off into the woods.

PRINCE CHARMING WAS ME ALL ALONG. //TRANS POETRY @doriangray