“She’s gay and you’re straight, she loves you ‘that way’, you like men, you think you can be friends? Blah blah blah…”
I wonder about those who look, stare intently and yet see nothing. What of them?
Pity and fury require too much energy, disdain demands a little caring.
They think of it as a game of chess, moving pieces on the board,
I want to jump and dance on the dark squares waving my hands in the air
let the pawns do as they will,
I know only one thing, I am not willing
to sacrifice my queen, won’t have her or me reduced to our sexuality. Is it such a wild thing to believe—imagine—we are much more than tits on a stick?
She is passion, and maybe in another dimension I like pussy and we align perfectly—maybe—gotta throw something to the gossip
She is strength, she is the sun rising in the east, the hopeful flower burgeoning too early in the spring
She writes words on small paper boats and sends them down rivers, whether they float or sink without a trace does not fucking matter
in the slightest, because she dares, and cares
She sees with her eyes closed
much further than most, even them with their night vision goggles
There was no need or craving, but so much room for her
when she appeared
and instantly took a place that was hers, as surely as if her name had been carved there before birth
It’s our story: she’s gay, I’m straight and we love each other—
talk about it, analyse it, make it sordid, seedy, do whatever but…deal with it, yeah?
Because, you know? We don’t really give a shit what anybody else thinks.
Sisters last longer than lovers, we’re gonna be laughing together forever.