M

♡ 41 Femme Lesbian

[queenbeegamer]

I met you with splinters still buried beneath my skin.

You smiled,

and I almost apologized

for the way my heart hesitated,

as if loving another woman

required permission

from every ghost who came before you.

I have known the ache

of being chosen second.

I have memorized silence

better than I ever memorized

"I love you."

So when your fingers brushed mine,

I expected thunder,

expected the sky to split open

and remind me

that beautiful things

never stay.

Instead,

you laughed.

A soft, ordinary laugh

that made the world feel

less like a battlefield

and more like somewhere

I could finally rest.

You do not ask me

to forget her.

You simply hand me

new memories

until the old ones

no longer carry all the weight.

You kiss me

like my lips were never meant

to apologize.

Like loving a woman

can be gentle,

can be patient,

can bloom without begging

for permission to exist.

Maybe healing

isn't waking up

without scars.

Maybe it's meeting a girl

whose smile makes you realize

your heart was never broken beyond repair—

it was only waiting

for someone

who would hold it

like something precious

instead of something temporary.

And for the first time

in what feels like forever,

I find myself hoping

that if love has my name

on its lips again,

I hope

it sounds like yours.

[remanence-of-love]

[mournfulroses]

Makenzie Campbell, from a poem featured in "2 a.m. Thoughts," originally published in 2017

[shisasan]

March 16th, 1935 Virginia Woolf, “A Writer’s Diary” (1918 - 1941)

[bhloomest]

[mournfulroses]

Marina Tsvetaeva, from a poem titled "When it’s unbearable," (edited) featured in Moscow in the Plague Years: Poems

[remanence-of-love]

[mournfulroses]

Ariel Day, from a poem titled "Long Term Memory," featured in Black Roses: Poems about Love, Heartbreak, Mental Health, Self Love

[queenbeegamer]

"Wanted"

I want to feel wanted—

not briefly, not in passing,

but etched into you,

a thought that lingers long after the lights dim

and the world exhales.

I want to live in your mind

like a favorite song you hum without realizing,

my name resting behind your teeth,

my memory warming you

when the night turns quiet and heavy.

I want your fingers to ache for mine,

to curl instinctively as if reaching for me

even when I’m not there.

To feel the absence between your knuckles

like a pulse,

like something unfinished.

I want your neck to miss my breath—

that slow, deliberate nearness,

heat hovering just close enough

to make your skin listen.

My lips not rushing,

just learning the language of you,

teaching patience,

teaching hunger.

I want soft hands—

yours and mine—

mapping familiar territory as if it’s sacred,

as if every inch deserves reverence.

Caressing slowly,

then with need,

then with the kind of pressure

that says stay

without speaking at all.

I want the way touch can undo us,

how it melts the armor we swear we don’t wear,

how it turns silence into confession.

Skin remembering skin,

even after it’s gone,

even after the room is empty.

I want to be the thought

that makes you close your eyes,

the pause in your breath,

the warmth that spreads

when you think you’re alone.

I don’t want to be borrowed.

I don’t want to be almost.

I want to be chosen—

again and again—

with intention,

with longing,

with that quiet certainty

that says:

you are mine to want,

and I want you completely.

[mournfulroses]

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[literaryvein]

L. V., excerpts from the afterword

[queenbeegamer]

Love, Spoken in Blankets

I am a hopeless romantic—

I carry your name in my chest

like a prayer that never ends.

I want to tuck you into my love,

wrap you in it until the world

can’t reach you anymore.

I would fall to my knees for you,

worship the warmth of your skin,

trace divinity in every breath you take.

I would make a god of you

with soft hands,

with reverence,

with devotion that never asks why.

I want to give you everything—

flowers chosen just for your smile,

your favorite snacks placed in your hands,

kisses that linger like promises,

love bites that say you are wanted,

touches that say you are safe.

I want to watch affection

spark in your eyes,

bright as a star remembering

how to burn.

And here is my quiet fault:

sometimes I want the same miracle

to happen to me.

To be loved with intention.

To be reached for without asking.

To be wrapped, too.

Love languages stumble,

hands miss the rhythm,

devotion speaks in dialects

we don’t always understand.

Still—

I love you in every language I know,

even when my own

go unanswered.

[mournfulroses]

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[nixscriptum]

[queenbeegamer]

"The Trap I Keep Calling Love"

Why am I never enough

for anyone?

I open myself like a wound,

rip out my heart

and lay it gently on a platter—

a fragile offering,

a delicate meal.

Only to watch it burn,

to see it carved and butchered,

sliced apart

by hands that never learned softness.

And still—

I keep trying.

Still—I return.

I never hold myself back,

I never stay whole.

I give and give

until the pieces of me

are thin as paper,

scattered like scraps on the floor.

There is not much left

to offer.

I am hurt again and again

like some injured creature

caught in the same rusted trap,

bleeding, trembling,

not knowing how to escape

the lure that keeps calling me forward.

Why do I do this to myself?

Why must I hunt for “love,”

when every time I find it,

it leaves new wounds—

another scar,

another ache,

another reminder

that wanting to be loved

has only ever taught me

how to break.

[misfitgh0sts]

Izabella

the girl with the sad face not looking but somehow frowning at what we are in background ever so gray cloudy, foggy just like the days we live in so depressing yet we close our eyes just frown even that’s not enough to express what we’re living

[literaryvein]

L. V., excerpts from the afterword