#queerpoetry

[tequilamezcalputo]

What if I had my all to give?

Life is so sad because why did I start with so little and be expected to give so much?

Every day alive was a day to struggle,

I thought it would end,

I was reassured it owuldn't be like this forever

but

it

feels like forever and it's actualy a lot worse.

[herpoetryjournal]

she kissed me

and the world didn’t end.

it finally began.

[lizellyn]

The Art of Love: Embracing Polyamory and Abundance

Wind whispers through fields of flowers. Petals carried by the breeze.ShiversAnd pebbled skin.Classic watercolors fill the walls,Careful strokes, built over time.Too pretty not to share,Gifting to appreciative friends.Until only one remained,Memories of love linger.Freshly painted white wallsBeams of sunlight dance.The one piece remains,Highlighted in the expanse.Satisfying.Yet not enough.Not…

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[yebnaa]

nothing ignites me like your touch

just once more, kiss the screen

lick me softly

n bite my heart with your teeth.

bare your gums and bleed me dry

pack me tight , all dipped in keef

i want to be your wood,

wet & brown

feel your lungs get heavy

with my love,

breathe me in and don’t exhale.

You feel me?

My smoke tunneling into your veins?

You feel me?

that itch in the back of your throat?

you feel me baby?

you’re intoxicating,

you’re rubbed on my gums,

bright lights and the faint smell of spray paint.

youre film over my eyes and muffled voices.

you’re heels at 3am

and keys in doors by 5.

warmth and release.

final smoke sessions before the crash.

youre nostalgia and familiarity.

the smell of the air at 6am in september.

you’re cool and warm.

my bunny wrapped in red thread,

finally in my grasp.

[gentle-oddity]

Wanting - A very rough draft

If humans were books, I’d be a mess. A mix of too much jargon and not enough definition, Unreadable to the average person, Something wholly unfriendly to community shelf, Even as community is what I search and yearn for.

My chapters are disordered, Titles incomprehensible, With the text itself reading worse.

My genre is made plain for many to see, And yet, There are readers found wanting, Who did not find what they expected.

A quiet, self-assured strength torn across an invisible wave, A love for the idea of things i can’t stand, A fundamental confusion, A definitional loss of memory, A gentleness that doesn’t always reach.

Despite my proclivity for providing a protagonists’ knowledge, And despite how open I set my book, I am often misread, Often misinterpreted, Often found myself spending so much effort to be understood.

For I often misread others, Unable to remember the details, Confused by the chapters’ assortment, Unable to identify with the main character, And found wanting by an invisible author.

I surround myself with tales, With stories of change and regrowth, Of the struggle of achieving and holding humanity, Of an abstract and diverse human spectrum, But i find myself wanting when made to give specificity, When asked to remember, When asked to provide meaning, Wanting for something more from myself.

[robynochs]

Not all resistance is loud; sometimes it lives in how we show up, how we love, how we dress, and how we build community and joy in a world that tells us not to.

Read Amethisté Allustria Amor’s poem “Silent Rebellion,” a powerful reflection on quiet authenticity and love as resistance, in the latest issue of Bi Women Quarterly: https://www.biwomenquarterly.com/silent-rebellion/

[everlastingv01d]

Conversation with my perfect self

Standing across from me, the figure of someone I've only seen in dreams.

A silence stretches between us as he takes in everything I am, his eyes meeting mine, a perfect reflection of my own.

He tries to speak, and his voice catches, instead he settles for setting his familiar hand on my shoulder.

He wipes a stray tear from our cheek.

"I'm sorry." he whispers.

"It's not your fault." I reply, my voice alien, not mine, not his.

Guilt consumes him contorting his features.

Him, sculpted marble, the beauty of the sky as the sun sets, the moon on a cloudless night, perfect.

Me, weathered walls, broken china, the rot that seeps into the earth.

There is an unspoken conversation that sits between us, one we both completely understand.

He is everything I ever wanted to be, and he knows this. The thoughts of everything he's taken for granted are reeling behind his skull, this is what he could've been. Disgust doesn't cross his face, but we both know he feels it.

We both know he has the urge to drive a blade into my neck, put me out of my misery, although neither of us show it.

And in a way, I have the urge to drive a blade into his neck, too.

[notasdemicel]

25 Mayo 

It’s not thirst — it’s the desire to melt into you, even if just for a moment, to be held and seen, with our souls laid bare