2 – I Write Her

story of a teenage romance

used to be I wore white, without a bra, receiving the Oscar, just by standing up, shaking left, give the lost boys, a stiff night

used to be, I worried about my curves, took the time to swim, 50 laps each morning, before I smoked my first cigarette, applied the hardness to my eyes, the go-fuck-you sunrise

used to be I mounted without impunity or desire, knowing I didn’t know, what it meant to care, waiting until it turned cold, a little death dripping down my legs

four walls

I would talk of these four walls that hem me; a yellowed parchment too wet to read

masking light from rescue and redemption, where soda bottles collect fallen flies like damp confetti

my feet grew too big for mommy’s shoes, I went bare, an unknown albino among brown skin, glistening with the sweat of play, like seals sunning on rocks in San Francisco, where my sister returns my letters, unopened and dry like shed skin

who has let in the cat again? who let me escape into yellow walls? where patterns are slightly ajar doors, and silence reigns, fitful in distemper

study of a girl

green water is still and birds sound from high
I hear it all
and only the
gentle deep of your voice
how you move
your mouth
the tilt of
your long neck
sunlight
turning your skin into caramel
picks out the
rushing river of your eyes
glances off
the high wistfulness of your cheeks
sway of
your bones moving beneath skin
stay in that
singular and plural second
I know there
are things pulling us back into the world
I think I see
more within
your secret self
than our
words have yet said
you have
planted a longing in me I cannot ignore

study of a girl #2

the wince and crimp of her slimness
like a willow tree, capturing storms
she holds her
head like a wave cresting
against soft shoreline
proud and a little self-assured
the quivering arrow of her curves
tie like a bow around desire
her skin is mango and sunlight
of all her lives spent
before she was found
for she is beauty

together

when they press against the other
beneath roar
of blood and live wire
crackling
into couplets of lightning
the entire world paused
in reflecting
pools oceans
never deep
enough to
swallow
the intensity
of their
regard

1991

it was not our shame
but we carried it high on our cheeks as if it were
the taunt of “lesbian” like sharpened nails
prodding us to flee
and where could we run?
not your closed-minded house, nor mine
what could I
a girl of mended pockets and thin chest of pennies
offer?
did something that felt so right really
reside in sin? is this why I was given a
mismatched heart latched to
yours and never the acrid
stink of boys?
if there had been a way to
take you away from all who said
they’re going through a phase
if we separate them long enough
oh love, my love, not enough time in this
short stacked life,
not enough power in the minds of men
no condemnation loud enough.
a scold from the whole world
who used ugliness to describe
what was always only beautiful

~~~

Daquin is an Editor, Writer, Psychotherapist, and Publisher. In addition to working as a therapist, she edits for five magazines and two publishing houses. Candice was first featured in 2022. Her piece, Phantasma, featured in 2022, was nominated for the Push Cart Prize. You can find her reblogs, features, and interview HERE.