(no subject)

[serene]

Wrote this some time between xmas and now, which I only know because my friend gave me the book I wrote it in as an xmas present.



I've done easy
and I've done hard
and easy is better.

I've done
salt crystals on my eyelashes
from nights of trying to make myself
heard
as she tries to make herself
heard.
I've done the parties full of people
she hates
and readings we left early
because she only wanted to make an appearance.

I've done knowing he would never
tell his wife about us.

I've done knowing that in his desire
for four-layer lasagne,
what he got was me, a cheese pizza.
Not that cheese pizza is bad, he says,
but it's no lasagne.

I've done that.

And I've done nights in your arms where the only tears were from joy or orgasm, and the gentle joyful days of noticing the candy pink of the clouds, and the afternoons when just a word from you dissolves us both in laughter.

She thinks it's easier because
I'm sleeping with men,
embracing my het privilege
in a way I couldn't when I was with her.

But it's not.

It's easier because it's easier.

It's easier because when you call me a slut, it's a compliment.

It's easier because you don't care where I keep the condiments, and if you did, you'd tell me.

It's easier because I understand the rules, and when I don't, I'm not punished for it.

Do I wish the men
who now make me happy
were women?

Sure, kind of.

I like being queer,
like touching girlflesh,
like holding my twin in bed,
and going down on myself.

But I don't miss knowing
I'm only perfect as long as I behave
as she wants me to,
and never love
anyone
else.

Comments

[wispfox.livejournal.com]

Thank you for sharing this. Beauty and joy. And past sorrow.