Source : Cats (and their Dykes) an anthology - edited by Irene Reti and Shoney Sien
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i imagine the butches’ stripper bar - jill mcdonough
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I live for the affection.
Stroking my hair? Yes. Rubbing my hand with your thumb? Yes please. Side hug around my waist while walking? Omg yes. Washing my hair, cooking for me, calling me nicknames? Yes, yes, yes.
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“I don't love women the way men love women.
I don't want to tame them.
I don't want to own them.
I don't want to treat them like a trophy in a case.
I just want to be close to them.
It's still hunger,
but a different kind of hunger.
-I almost didn't recognize it at first.”
-She is the poem by June Bates
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This Lesbian Poem by Akhaji Zakiya
from Lisa C Moore's Does Your Mama Know?: An Anthology of Black Lesbian Coming Out Stories
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I’m attracted to safety. Coming home to the most beautiful person you've ever seen and you know however bad everything outside maybe, your person will be there to support you, no matter what. You know your feelings are safe as you lay your head on her lap. She listens to your vents and your sighs, all the while holding you gently in her soft, warm arms, stroking your hair. And you get to protect her just the same. There is no judgement, there is no danger, there is only love. Safety. That’s all I want. The romance of safety in my lover's arms.
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"I know what I am
when I look at old pictures
long, wavy hair, eyeliner, mascara
demure and mysterious.
I know what I am
when I wander on my lunch hour
to sample new fragrances
and linger near lace lingerie.
I know what I am
when I paw through these old letters
still warm with old passions
held firmly in wide rubber bands.
I know what I am
when the sight of old white t-shirts
and the smell of Old Space
can still make me shiver and smile
I know what I am
in the dark when you fill me
your hands and your mouth
in the head of the heart of my center
I know what I am."
"Old femme", Madeline Davis, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)
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working title is: zoe learns how to sext
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trailing my nose up their body, stopping to press kisses on their hips, stomach, tits. My hand runs follow their curves on the opposite side, rough calluses in delicate touch. they’re the rolling hills i roam.
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i used to be a little girl. and now i’m not. and that’s good. that’s important.
but the thing is. is that i’ll never be her again. can’t, won’t, will never. wouldn’t want to, anyway.
but the other thing is, i keep all her favourite books on my bottom shelf. and i have her stuffed animals on the foot of my bed, still. and i sleep in her room, every night. and i look at the pink walls, at the colour she chose, and i think of repainting and i don’t.
i’ll never be her again, but i am living in the life that she built. waited for. dreamed of. i’ll never be her again, but i try to take good care of her things
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To all the girls I’ve ever loved
Because I want Netflix to make a movie about a lesbian and the 84839 people they fall for 🫡🌈
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My head is loud, I need you to love me louder
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Source: The Exploding Frangipani ; Lesbian Writing From Australia and New Zealand -edited by Cathie Dunsford and Susan Hawthorne
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Love Poem to a Butch Woman (2005)
By Deborah A. Miranda
This is how it is with me:
so strong, I want to draw the egg
from your womb and nourish it in my own.
I want to mother your child made only
of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed
from any man. I want to re-fashion the matrix of creation, make a human being
from the human love that passes between
our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is:
when you emerge from the bedroom in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back
over forearms, scented with cologne
from an amber bottle—I want to open
my heart, the brightest aching slit
of my soul, receive your pearl.
I watch your hands, wait for the sign
that means you’ll touch me,
open me, fill me; wait for that moment
when your desire leaps inside me.
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