play, pause, replay

betrayal under the pale moon

The moment I kissed Daisy, my thoughts

didn't fly out of the window like they write

in the romance books.

It was another question that hit me hard:

Do Gods too falter and embrace deceit?

When her lips bruised mine,

my burned dreamland got stained in ichor.

I felt like another Goddess, who after bending 

her last virtue, has descended to weep

like a mundane sin. Like another broken

soul scarred by a cruel twist of the blade,

clinging to the final leaf of ivy.

My heart splits wide open—the memory of that 

afternoon on your birthday; the taste of salt burned

summers on my lips and the stupid fight over 

fucking Greyson, that almost ended up ripping each

other's hair off. But today, it's different.

I am gripping your hair, clutching it tightly,

and letting your rough hands trace along the

contours of my back. A sudden gasp slips

from my mouth as you block the last daylight

with your lips crushing against mine.

Sugar-swollen tongues of lovers vomited ambrosia.

I'm the goddess veiling the moonlight and wilting

the flowers underneath my sacred sin and moonlit

betrayal, almost declaring my love in the whirling

oblivious rings of profaned passion.

Greyson is dead in our twilight world, there's no

space left for him except those whispered vows,

now forgotten and buried in the decayed garden.

There's more shadow than yellow flesh;

Clashing, teeth to soul,

forbidden as the sunset,

almost crashing my doubt, as if we're not for this world.

The freedom in our sin almost blurs my vision.

A lipstick stain on her collarbone, an aching

bliss on the curve of my neck—desire

is sharper than our crooked teeth, tearing

apart every skin of secret we've been wearing.

Even the goddesses might fall, stripped bare

in the show of lovers' language;

The weakest pulse of passion, still fueled by its fire.

───────────────

A/N: Why is LGBTQ representation so crucial? It's about celebrating the essence of being yourself as a queer person. It's about recognizing that being queer is as normal as breathing. Yes, you heard me right. Normal. Like waking up, brushing your teeth, and wondering why socks disappear in the dryer.

The reason I write queer poetry so often is to shed light on this normalcy. Let's be real: being queer doesn't make us sick, drain our bank accounts, or threaten society. It's just another way of feeling, of loving, of existing. If you want to love, love the person for their heart, not their genitals.

If seeing queer representation in art makes you uncomfortable, maybe the problem isn't the representation. Maybe it's your narrow worldview that needs a little expanding. We'll keep shining a light on our experiences, our love, and our lives. Visibility matters. And we're here to stay.

Happy reading!

Affectionately, 

Sreeja.