relationships – novamartinpoetry.com

Poems

Many People

There are many people

who love me.

And many people

who actively don’t love me.

Who hate me.

I’m a transexual woman.

Loud and proud.

Many people,

hetero and queer,

don’t like me and

my loud and proud way.

I honestly spend a lot

of time thinking about

these people.

What if I could do enough

kind things?

Maybe then these people

would love me.

At least appreciate and

respect me.

But I know that won’t be

the case for many of

these people.

What if I love more and more

and more?

I can love quite a bit bigger

than lots of people.

But maybe I should spend

more time

caring about the many people

who love me.

The people who love me

just as I am.

Poems

In The Shower With The Future

In the shower in my hotel room

in Bangkok,

I listen to The Flaming Lips

“In The Morning Of The Magicians”.

It’s morning here and I’m getting

prepared to meet the CEO of

my company in an hour.

As the soft, warm water pours

down my silky skin,

and as I feel the song more and

more,

I begin to daydream of a woman

whom I’m falling in love with.

I start imagining how incredible

it would be to wake up with them

on a morning, every morning.

Then I just start crying out of joy

and tenderness.

Deep, soulful crying.

It’s like I can’t believe this

would be possible,

maybe not with the woman I was

daydreaming of.

I still believe morning moments

like that will happen.

I feel the depth, joy, and pain

of the future and of waiting for

the future,

and am thankful for

that spiritual moment in the shower

with that song.

Poems

She didn’t love me
the way I needed…
The way I wanted to be loved.
She couldn’t.
Didn’t have the ability.
She could if she changed.
But she won’t change.
That would take too much
work, vulnerability, and humility.
So she deludes life and
eschews love.
She doesn’t care.
There are a lot of other people
who live like her.
Likely someone reading this poem
right now.
I think it’s sad, but I guess
it’s really very human for people
to be afraid of change,
and afraid of love.
To love is to risk losing love
or risk not receiving love.
I’ll take that risk.
And I’m proud I will.

Poems

Top, Bottom, Or Switch? (from my dating app profile)

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.

Poems

Damage & Joy (Gorgeous Clxt)

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.

Poems

Sometimes At 45

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?

Poems

Found Objects

I found your strap-on harness.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
For a half second I got horny
looking at it,
thinking about how you looked handy
and manly wearing it across your
womanly curves.
You always wear your carpentry toolbelt
with such pride.
Then quickly I got sad and melancholy,
remembering how the last time
you used it on me
I started crying cuz I didn’t feel you were
f**king me with any interest…
then you started crying cuz you felt
critiqued.
I thought about dropping it off on your
front porch,
but I’m not traveling down your street anymore.
Plus, I concluded it would do neither
one of us any good to drop it off at your place.
I can’t keep it cuz not many women
will want to wear a strap-on
that another woman used on me.
I guess there’s maybe some out there
who would,
but I came to the conclusion to throw it
in the trash.

Poems

The Wrong And Wrongly Done

I opened up someone

who should not be opened up.

She’s many thousands of

years,

maybe millions of years away

from being ready to be

opened up.

But I did it anyways

cuz that’s what I do;

flippant, curious, voracious.

And light and love

came violently screaming out

of her and pouring into her.

A being misunderstanding

their self,

misunderstanding my being.

Afterwards,

the oak trees called me

to them,

asked me what I had done and

why did I do it.

I said

it was for carnal earthen reasons.

And they conveyed,

oh star stuff Nova,

you still have so many ways

to grow and so many things

to learn.

Poems

Weak In Her Arms

I’m taller than her.

She knows how to hold me

in a womanly way.

She’s held a tall woman before.

She’s an athlete.

I think that helps her with

confidence and cool calmness.

She’s stronger than my last

girlfriend and my last girlfriend

was pretty strong.

I really like strong women.

Swoon. It’s my achilles.

I love feeling weak in my

babe’s arms.

Poems

What I Remember

What I remember from her
is just something visceral.
Something in the body.
Raw. Ancient.
Long life. Sentient. Awake.
Star stuff.
I know we were a shitshow.
Bad words and hurtful things
said, done, and felt
to each other.
But somehow all I remember
is powerful, visceral, psychic,
physical, soulful
feelings.
Well, just a feeling.
One feeling, one unified feeling.
It feels very similar to
sunshine on your skin,
on an early October morning
in Texas,
in autumn of the northern
hemisphere
on Earth.