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.