Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2021, Writing

Heatwave

The air is hot.

I hit the streets in the necklace you got me for my birthday,

behind my boyfriend’s back,

knowing that the pendant will leave a tan mark all around my neck,

a map for your lips, when you get me alone.

There’s nothing more romantic than the rush of forbidden love,

sleeping, dormant down in my soul,

until we are together,

in the shadows,

away from the heatwave,

where my secrets spill from my skin,

and I am eternally yours for a few hours.

Awake at all hours,

desire reflected,

my vision of myself as a pure and moral woman is betrayed by how well my body fits with yours,

and how much my racing heart requires your immediate attention.

He’s probably the kind of fool to hate my sin, but love the sinner,

holding onto a glimmer of hope,

as if my foot is not halfway out the door and painted with rainbows.

When I get home,

he asks me how I feel about my day,

I tell him that I don’t.

I only feel when I’m with you,

but I can’t tell him the truth.

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