I’m a lesbian top.
A “servant top”.
I like to use my tongue,
lips, hands, and toys.
And very good, attentive, caring,
and tuned into all the above.
Love to blow my lady’s mind
and take her breath away
and elevate her soul.
While I like to be the “doer”,
I’m very femme & sensual
at the same time;
gaspy, moany, intoxicated with you.
Love deep kisses and being
chest to chest.
I prefer not to use my thing
that was turned from a clxt
into a wee wee
in my mother’s womb,
but if you really want that
then I could be open to it.
She has the face of a pristine
angel.
And a heavenly, swollen, strong,
smooth, suave, sweet,
feminine power clxt.
And that’s about where the
alignment of our
hearts and minds ended.
Her narcissism liked my passionate
attraction to her.
My servant soul liked giving
into and pleasing her.
But we were able to do
quite a lot
with just these elements;
lots of damage
and lots of joy.
My peni$ smells like pu$$y.
Good pu$$y.
Sweet pu$$y.
And no, not because I
fkd a woman
with good, sweet pu$$y.
My peni$ smells like pu$$y
because
I take female hormones
and I’m a woman.
I hung around a guy tonight.
He was really horny.
I was really horny too.
He was kind and cool,
and honestly,
pretty handsome.
I knew that should I want,
I could have him, we could fck.
I would know exactly what to do.
I know how to satisfy people,
anyone,
deeply,
pleasurably, heavenly.
But as I said,
he was a man,
so I had zero interest in him.
It’s moments like this that I know
I’m gay.
Horniness meets horniness.
It’s there for the taking.
But I do not take it, nor do I care.
And so I laid down in bed and
thought about women
and touched myself.
Did you want to see my gonads?
I’m not real sure you do.
They’re really very weird looking,
like all male-born gonads
(in my own personal opinion).
After receiving female hormones
they’ve shriveled up a bit.
I’d even say they’re kind of cute now,
as cute as male-born gonads can be.
46 years ago
they started on a journey.
Ever since, they have come outside,
into the golden sunlight world.
And since, I’ve wish they’d go,
go back inside,
or maybe even go away completely.
They’re going to be removed
from my body soon,
so soon, their unnecessary journey
will end.
My love, she brings me violets
from her garden.
They wither and hang on.
She sneaks around her husband
to kiss me on the side street
behind the bar.
My fk, she steals away from her
girlfriend around midnight
once a week.
She used to be my love,
but now we just fck.
She knows about my new love and
her heart aches a little cuz she knows
I’ll always be loved somewhere
in between.
A transwoman halfway between
commitment and a promise,
half a human to most people,
except the few women who let me
exist with their breaths,
then I am whole only cuz
the two of us are
whole together,
holding each other’s corporeal
souls.
They know me more than
halfway
then.
They believe they are alive
in ways they’ve never lived.
She sees I’m looking
for love.
And she’s scared.
Scared that someone could
look for love that bad,
that the world could make
someone so hopeful,
though so needy,
held on this cosmic ocean,
a sand grain
whirled before infinity and
annihilation.
She sees the annihilation
that my heart beats
every time she looks at me,
into my eyes,
and she sees all that’s been
lost and all that will be lost.
She’s scared, so she stops
looking and forgets in time.
But then time forgets her
and everything else.
This is a sad poem.
These are sad days these days.
Well, to be honest, these days
are a mix of incredibly fulfilling
and happy days, the happiest
I’ve experienced in my life, but then
sad days from dwelling in the pain
of a breakup, hearing the things
she said, over and over, in my head,
things she said to question my gender,
my legitimacy as a woman, and as a
gay woman — that I was not the real,
authentic deal for her.
So, sometimes I wonder, if I die in my
45th year, would she, wherever she’s at
when she receives the news,
would she breakdown?
Would she tear her living room apart,
smash furniture, throw knickknacks
against the wall until they shattered
into pieces of glass or porcelain?
Or, would she be with friends and drop
to her knees, crumble into their arms
in a sobbing, inconsolable state?
Or, would she just turn to her daughters
in a state of shock and say stoically,
“Nova’s dead”, then breakdown as
they watched her — scared and confused
and hurt themselves?
Or maybe, she simply wouldn’t care?
Sometimes I just wanna be fkd.
Just wanna be laid back naked
with my tits bouncing around,
her on top
and her tits hanging out
freely and swinging,
hands clutched together,
knuckles locked to knuckles,
her clxt swollen, hard, and huge,
pounding my perineum
til she cums…
til she cums
and I lose my breath,
lost in my mind,
lost in my soul,
lost in the ocean of the universal soul,
evicerated in desire,
renewed and reborn through
love, lust, and trust.
The moon with her glow,
I hid from her light
but she called me anyways
from out of my home
and into the night.
Her crushed tinsel dress
shining on high.
My lips found her thighs
and my eyes, bashful
but entranced,
afraid to look up to her
iconic face and powerful grace.
Her crepulescent lips
burning,
waiting, they spoke without words,
as they professed
they wanted, they needed my kiss.
She called me home for our
midnight embrace,
entwined and attune,
two women f@&$ing each other.
Two eons salvaged,
two eras made,
one whole age announced,
only one age now
from hence this time writ.
novamartinpoetry.com 