A poem about a young girl's love and frustration for a much older woman. An infatuation sparked On a day of many tears. Her hand, Stretched out like a swan's neck, And graceful like one too, Grabbed mine and squeezed The sorrow out of it. A spark, That quickly burst into a flame, Burning hot with passion As the cinders from my past Fell away. What would mother think? To expect a tall, strong man Carry me over the threshold And slip a ring on my finger, Only to find that I, Her only daughter, Instead fantasized about someone Like me, Breasts much larger and wiser Than mine. Eyes that have seen more life Than me, But still gentle under its weight Of her knowledge. What would become of me If the world were to know That I became the very thing I was raised not to be? If Father knew I exchanged My insides with someone who Was supposed to be a man, But wasn't? And in exchange, Her flesh went to me? Though the wheels on this subject Is nonexistent to some, My passion for this woman Makes them turn frantically. Who am I? So think such things Towards a woman like me, And then sit up and cry The next morning in shame. I wonder who I am, And what I've become, And who I will be, And wonder in tears, Until the very woman who started This new life of mine Embraces me. Her body is soft life mine And her voice flows like a breeze Into my ear. "There's nothing wrong with us," She says. And when I hear those words, It's like I'm not a woman at all. I'm still a child, Yearning for answers, Not quite developed, And heavy with curiosity. Perhaps she can teach me, Perhaps she already knows. After all, It she must be magical to make Wheels that don't exist, Turn as though they do. Even if Mother told me not to, Even if Father will turn his back, My heart will beat with hers As long as I have one.
Yea, I did, once. It didn't work out though. I was 15 and she was almost 40 and she wouldn't have anything of it but I wrote this as a reflection on it, I suppose.
