“How does it work?”
You asked me one day.
“Are you girl,
Is she the man?
With you so soft,
And she so tough?”
“When did you know?”
You went on to say.
“That you loved a she,
That you were…ahem…gay?
You look so feminine, you look so soft,
While she looks masculine, yet somehow not.”
“Is this a phase?”
You went on to ask.
“Fairly new? Perhaps shan’t last?
You’re young. You’re pretty.
Just find the right man!
Come now, I’ll help. You’ve only but to ask.”
“How does it work?
When did I know?
Is this a phase?”
And I smile sadly. For I know,
The questions will always last.
“It works just fine. We both make do.”
“I knew as a child. I just never spoke of.”
“It’s not a phase. And hardly that new.”
“Believe me. I know. What I say is all true!”
It works because she loves me,
Always so gentle. Yet rough.
When first we made love, her arms round me strong,
I exhaled, quivering at her every touch.
She carried me to bed, I felt so small, so frail…
Who would have thought!
Fine. You asked. I knew when I was twelve.
Yet immediately felt sick,
For how could I be ‘normal’,
Yet curves and legs still make my heart skip a beat?
I think not.
Though I won’t lie.
Sometimes I wish it could be just that.
Then I could forget.
And no longer fret.
“Just one last question!”
You grip my sleeve.
And I lower my eyes, but not from shame.
“Yes?” I whisper. “What else must you know?”
Then you smile. Such a soft and sweet smile!
“Do you mind these questions?
I don’t wish to intrude.
You’re my friend and I love you!
I’d never mean to be rude!”
I exhale. Relax.
(Perhaps even thank the gods!)
Your questions are well meaning,
You simply had to ask.
“I don’t mind.
I still have questions myself.
If anything, it helps to think through,
As I sort my raw feelings,
And try not to feel blue.”