How I Knew I Was a Lesbian at 4 Years Old


As my teacher explained God’s plan,

I remember these specific thoughts:

“That’s not me, I’m not in Heaven,

Why aren’t two married girls there?”

Prior to my initial homophobic trauma at 4 years old,

I had to have known I was exclusively attracted to girls,

Otherwise it would not have been severely traumatic.

So I must have known prior to it,

Even right before that moment,

But what was the actual feeling?

Continue reading “How I Knew I Was a Lesbian at 4 Years Old”

Femme vs. Butch | Internalized Homophobia Poetry Therapy

Author’s Note: This poem addresses a lesbian community topic of femmes and butches. These terms are exclusively used by lesbians for specific purposes, but not all lesbians use them. Personally, I use “femme” and “lipstick lesbian.” This poem uses the term “tomboy” (mainstream use for straight girls) and “butch” (subculture use for masculine-presenting lesbians).

Resources explaining / discussing femme and butch lesbian subcultures.

IMPORTANT: Do not misinterpret “femme” and “butch” to decide: “Who’s the man and who’s the woman?” THAT IS NOT WHAT THOSE TERMS MEAN. There are plenty of femme–femme (aka me and my future wife) and butch–butch relationships.


“I think the world of you…”

Begins the Facebook message.

I have not read the rest.

Guilt.

Crushing guilt.

Continue reading “Femme vs. Butch | Internalized Homophobia Poetry Therapy”

Theirs & Hers

[Alternative Title: I wish there was a plural male pronoun.]


Their lips were different than hers.


All lips had the same eagerness and desire,

Except mine when they didn’t meet hers.


Her lips were different than theirs.


She met me where I was,

Not devouring past the moment.


After her lips,

Their lips were distant memories.


More Lesbian Poetry:

How I Knew I Was a Lesbian at 4 Years Old

Femme vs. Butch | Internalized Homophobia

All Sapphics Are Poets

Looks of longing

Never touching

Always feeling

Fear superseding

Pain connect us

Past generations hear us

Sappho

E. Dickenson

A. Lorde

Their words repeat back to us

Ringing true in our ears

How long must it last,

An artform taken from despair?

One day all Sapphics won’t be poets,

But all poetry is Sapphic