Wednesday, June 17, 2009

straight girl haikus

high off of drugs and
attention, she's laughing at
my sober craving.

from the first time she
ran her fingernails across
my back, i was hers.


"i will be king, and you will be queen... i don't think a woman is really a woman unless she's a blonde." -gia


I'm starting off by posting things I've already written in times past. They won't be chronological, because they're all in a mess thrown about my computer in odd places. But here's one I wrote a couple years ago.


Apparently now's the time,
Now, when I have an hour to cram work in before it's due
Now, when I'm sitting in class, twiddling my thumbs
Now, when my friends are impatiently waiting for me to straighten my hair and get the fuck out the door
Now's the time to think of you.
Those lips...
Those soft, full, beautiful lips that part to form the brightest smile
Or the silliest, most unsexy smirk.
Why, in days apart, does my every inch crave the way you treat it, my hands and mouth trembling sometimes, dreaming of making your fingers curl up in my sheets or
those same fingers
gently pushing between
my own
in a sweet, secret embrace
underneath the movie seats.

It will pass, I know, as all things do.
Soon I'll look into those big brown eyes and the flash behind them will have disappeared, that hint of do-me-later, that bit of you're-mine-only that sometimes flies from your eyes to mine across a room of unsuspecting strangers.
Soon your lips will be as any other lips, just there for opening wide to stuff in a big sandwich and for closing tight when you've spoken too much.
Soon your skin will be to hold all the other stuff inside,
and your hands will be for picking up pencils that drop on the floor, and your voice will be for communicating only.
But for now! every bit of you lingers in slow-to-fade visions of the sweet and the sexy, visions that dance on the inside of my eyelids, there to taunt me not only in sleeping, but with every.

Feeling inspired

I write often of women. Even when I mean not to show the lesbian in me, my writing tends to take a feminine form. I see beauty itself as having curves- the hips of the hillsides, the breasts of the mountains, the floral smells of the trees (and her hair) all in one swirling windy embrace of feminine beauty.

Everything I love and hate can be personified as a woman, and thus my writing often lends itself this way.

Which means, as my world doesn't allow such a public love of women... that these words are often self-censored.

Here, I dedicate a spot to those words I wouldn't publish elsewhere. For love of women.