I find it important to write even when nothing is coming out the way you want it to…this odd little piece is a result of that. I am unpracticed in writing about my love of and attraction to women. I feel all of the words behind my eyes, my tongue, my fingertips. I spent so long purposely ignoring this aspect of myself that I effectively cut the poet out of the equation!

Unlike old blogs or social media accounts of mine, I will not be posting old poetry here. While I adore some of the pieces – and may make the odd exception for a bit that is both relevant and well received – this is a place for me to grow, explore, develop. I’d rather fumble through finding myself than fall back into tired old habits.

Right now I taste like black cherries and desperation

I am aching to put pen to paper and have no flow to begin with

I don’t know what story I am trying to tell, only that I am so intoxicated by the existence of Sappho’s daughters

That Ani’s 32 flavors (and then some) are simultaneously more than I could have imagined and not nearly enough

Practiced in the art of divine communication and nature’s odes but breaking from the shell of self-imposed suppression/repression – I don’t know how to weave the words into something pretty

If I did, I’d craft a basket for every thought that escapes your lips in my vicinity

I’d swirl the fibers of your dreams into the the seams of this reality every night until you wanted for nothing

My fingers are stained. Deep deep violet, mango scented and sending a strange new syllable count into the ether, asking to be allowed to occupy your space

I don’t know who you are

You are so many women I pass on the street, in hallways, quick conversation and fleeting glances

Don’t mind the non-rhythm of my rambling; this ramshackle structure is in need of repair. I left this piece of me for years and offered little care.

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