The Story According to Sarah

Daniel J. Langton (my great-uncle)

When babies begin to look like real people

yet all it takes is one glance at her skin for your heart to melt

time has passed.

Because your brain doesn’t often forget to remind you to breathe

and the “ttt ttt” of the second hand fades into the chorus of the lull of your home

this is moving on.

Your flowers were the condolence gift

mourning the end in purple roses

As if the only thing that can keep me alive is the bustling breeze whipping around my body reminding me to breathe.

I guess that makes me a sub whatever that means. I guess that makes me a femme whatever that means.
I guess I don’t mind being dominated if I can trust the dominator
I guess sex doesn’t really fit in boxes anymore
Gender and sexuality are words and images clipped from magazines waiting to be glued down on our vision boards
But they are always OUR vision boards because the way the were originally assembled doesn’t make sense anymore
We are un-definable
We are prisms of light
Shades of masculine and feminine looking for someone to bounce life off of
Looking for someone to give when we need to receive, to receive when we need to give
And when it is done right both gets done at the same time
Sometimes it is rough, like bone to bone, your insides cling kind of love
Sometimes it is candle wax on torsos or moonbeams on eyelashes
Sometimes there is no skin involved at all; it is just being to being.
Here let me hold that soul for you because you have been drowning in labels for so long that you have grown tired of survival
Here is a moment of bliss, a moment of aliveness
All day long I expend. I hold together, I lift up, I give out
But sometimes I just take in.

laurenzuni:

New video for Submissive! A little bit of sexy talk, if you like that sort of thing. (Video filmed by Jeffrey Kay at the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC) 

Frank O’Hara

Andrea Gibson, excerpt from A Letter to the Playground Bully, From Andrea, Age 8 1/2

lady in blue, For Colored Girls who have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf, Ntozake Shange

I haven’t written about this yet

because it is going to hurt

and I don’t know how to say how I feel,

but he left.

“here is my heart, have it.”

and there i go

hopefully handing over,

in hues of rose and violet,

dripping splendidly,

what beats for me

and bleeds for you.

the tips of our fingers touch.

you look longingly down

but, unable to bear that tiny truthful weight

you politely push back my hands

without a word, i try not to watch you walk away