Mature Content - Blog Posts
Penisneud
"You were born broken."
"That is your birthright."
-Beatrice Horseman
I was born small, swollen, and suffocated
Ive grown ten times in size
But alls the same
That ends the same
I edge near suffocation
When my partner suffocates me
To take the edge off me
Squeze harder please, it feels better for me
I want desperatley to be grateful for my life
And not swell myself on food and folly
I want to be small, carried by you
Why am I so small if im so big?
You tell me you love me all the same
But I'd change it anyday, anyway I could
If I could I would carry a wood worth its name
Instead it is life that is hard
And longing...
Poetry talk: Lesbian never born
I thought id speak about my poem "lesbian never born", or rather the feelings that inspired it. Theres a lot of markers for my transition into a woman but it really feels like it begins on July 2023 when I started hormone replacement therapy. Since then I've changed a lot physically, but mentally I still carry a burden of being a man for 23 years of my life, and the shame instilled in me for my s3xual cravings. Anyone who becomes fixated on p***ography can probably tell you that shame becomes a part of the desire, a part of how you identify yourself. For me that shame is the shame of "he", the shame men often carry. It conflicts with the "she" that i feel i am, and cuts me off from woman, hence the cut of "she" into "he" in the poem. The metaphor of sifting sand is in part my recent fascination of the beach and a memory I have of the beach at Cape Cod (although I remember those beaches being more rocky in reality). I wanted something to capture that ethereal feeling of softness that woman seem to hold to me, and sand felt appropriate. Wind I often use in tandem with love, love that is sometimes cold, sometimes cool. Love for me is tinged with nostalgia, as is wind blowing through branches and sakara flowers. Revolutionary Girl has been a strange fixation for my yearning to be on some level a lesbian, my thoughts are blurred and the words arent really there, which is why i identify so much with the AMV for the anime on Youtube with the song "Winner Takes it All". It is the centerpiece of my poem as nostalgia is a huge crux of who i am, my life is repetitive as is my poetry. Or perhaps history doesn't repeat itself, but rhyme.
Can the towel drop make a return, on her?