Category: LGBTQ

the mystery of the flirtatious woman

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A Prose Poem

Photo by Derek Fahsbender via ReShot

she doesn’t come wrapped in bows boldly standing at your doorstep–she creeps into your thoughts unannounced and ready to test your loyalty to the image of her you have tried hard to forget.

she carries herself well–bust intact and perfectly pressed into a pushup bra, eyebrows threaded without a flaw. she blows her honeyed breath in my direction, flashes a brief smile–I catch her pearly whites before blinking.

I want to place my hands in places not meant for prayer. I stand unsure of where to go when she is near. should I carve a path? should I move my mark?

she is a mystery to me–showing me what I could have, but keeping me at arm’s length. I have all these inches yet I yearn for a mile.

I am a patient person . . . 
I whisper to myself. 
I am a patient person.

Originally published via Simily.

Your Poem From Me Request #11

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The Giving Cause: I Am No One’s Number One

Cool Mens Hair

Senryu, 6 Parts

bound by wayward hands
this–a life I did not seek
breaks my lonely heart

never a first choice
played with and sought after when
life seems relentless

he didn’t pick me
he didn’t pick me either
do I still matter

I shouldn’t give up
it’s my positive outlook
but I do worry

will I die alone
never knowing heart’s true love
or will I bounce back

I haven’t lost faith
men whisper about my smile
I’m still a good catch

Thank you Clay Rivers for giving me the opportunity to gift this poem to you, and for being vulnerable enough to request it. I hope I’ve done your request justice. Peace and blessings.

To learn more about Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here. Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life

Boldly, She Creeps. She Creeps.

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Musical Selection: Snoh Aalegra|Fool for You

A Free Verse Poem

Photo by Ashleigh via Pexels

and I am beholden to her,
bathed in a glossy light
of her intentions.
could she just be flirtatious — 
plotting on playing, picking
sides, and pursuing nothing?

I am cautious in her presence,
boldly, she creeps. she creeps.
and when she does, I stand aside
and mimic a child looking for
her lost toy.
I must find it.
it needs me.

I can’t figure her out.
I keep telling myself, “Tread
lightly. Watch yourself.
Be careful.” there could be
danger ahead.
I want this danger. I don’t want
this danger.
this danger is linked to her — 
I want her.

But I want to be safe too.

I hear an older church mother
in the back of my mind shouting,
“Pick your poison, baby. Can’t
have your cake and eat it
too!”
And I understand her words of
concern. I know the memory
of her will play on — she knew
what she was talking about.

Age and wisdom and experience.

I ask the dog, “Why me? Why
has she chosen me to
beat around the bush with
when I need consistency and
clarity and comfort?
women know what they’re
doing with their ways. they do.
keepers of lust and desire,

I will not pressure her.

I will remain in a lane
of my own making — happy
to gallivant effortlessly in
a world of her design.
I see what she cannot.
I hear what she cannot.

I do not want to damage
the goods she flaunts in
my direction.
boldly, she creeps. she creeps.
and when she does, I stand aside
and mimic a child looking for
her lost toy.
I must find it.
it needs me.

And I need her.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt, Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

YouTube

I Understand True Love Doesn’t Sleep

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A Prose Poem

Photo by Dasha Pats via ReShot

The day of love approaches — savored lips flaunt in the midnight air — an enticing invitation for feelings swaddled in blankets too tight for release.

I have my ways, I know. You tell me this often, and I do hear you. I do. But I find my ways to be risky if I veer too far away from them — they’ll find me. They’ll seek me out.

And once I’ve been repurposed and re-homed, they will betray me. You have been my ruin for different shades of many moons — I want out.

I understand true love doesn’t sleep, but this feels like death — pre-meditated. I don’t remember signing up for this. *“You were light, but you were never my sun.”

I gave you a place at the table of my world — you sopped at every morsel, buried your woes at my feet. I welcomed the torment. I opened my door to the revolution and it struck me without warning.

I am burned by the light of a star.

Here . . . there are scars that refuse to heal. Here . . . there is pain that continues a cycle. Here . . . there is a heavy cross to bear.

I am broken from carrying it.

I wait for you — afraid that if I move forward in time with someone who walks on high heels and flashes deep dimples in my direction, I will fall and won’t be able to stand and steady myself in an upright position. She makes me weak.

And while the lovers of this realm ululate at the sight of a full moon on a day more special than your favorite sin, I will bite my tongue, don my adulting garb, and thank God for the new pair of balls I’ve grown.

I don’t believe in true love. I did believe in you.

I don’t anymore.

*Taken from the indomitable Sarah Doughty.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.