Honesty That Kills

It's raining softly in my mind,

the mistress of my freshest daymare rushes to my side

to say to me everything that makes a "lover"

someone who loves you,

rather than a consistent fling.

She mistakes me for the hopeless romantic

I let a darker dream lose for me.

I am only a girl

who loves women,

but has yet to find this sort of love

or even acceptance

of the thoughts I entertain.

I feel filthy after every fanciful encounter.

I push her away with the very idea of love.

For a lover is another person who lets you pour your secrets out to them,

lean against their shoulder as you find another sort of pleasure

is in their power to induce.

Simply being understood, believed,

beats any kind of sex.

She makes me believe I can imagine away my life

like I always have.

I've asked my Goddess and my God

to let me cry, as hard as I did for her,

for a man.

I can't un-love her

even if this feeling one day fades

and I leave everything that reminds me of her.

I can't un-find in myself, a passion for womankind

that blinded me even to the boy who loved me.

I can't un-tell the truth

to those who would deserve every lie they wish I'd told

were I not so honest.

I can't un-lose my compassion

and conviction that only love merits lust.

Even if it was only a series of dreams

that connected me to her.

She stole something of mine when I watch her play scenarios

of every way she could take me in my dreams.

If I cared about her, I'd never feel justified in acting on my fantasies

the way I do these days.

all I can do to console my independent, free-floating subconscious

is to make her cruel fantasies my own

and make more hate to any girl so bold as to cross my mind.

Someday, I tell Myself I'll love a girl so deeply

I'll never want to hurt her

or take her abuse.

I'll never fear what society will say.

Myself tells me not to kid.

I am trying to wake up

one dream at a time.