Soft as a Tampon
Fan·ta·sy /noun/ the faculty or activity of imagining things,
especially things that are impossible or improbable.
My someday partner sprawls on the sectional
of my ribs, blanketed in rescue animals, hair
buzzed short because masc butches
swoon me like butterfly wings.
On Saturdays, they wash the week
clean with a bubble-bath spliff, ginger
turmeric tea, and British women waxing
lyrical about true crimes. They will have the gender
range of Prince, part tender, part menswear.
Enough sex positivity to make up for every 90s
movie that cringed me into adolescence.
Re·al·i·ty /noun/ the world or the state of things as they actually
exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.
We have one rickety pitbull, separate
bedrooms because we snore, and my partner
is a straight cisgender man who makes doves
cry. My brain stutters when he sympathizes
with the male perspective – his perspective. Must be
reminded that he is soft as the day he pulled a tampon
from his cabinet as if it were the most normal fare for single
men, his smile curving into “what? It’s like having Band-
Aids.
We all bleed.” Anxiety shreds the inside
of my cheek when he asks questions
or thinks critically about
an alleged abuser.
Am·I·still·gay? /haunts/ the pink silence of my throat. What if I
want to bind our names in paper, in ink and law, and grocery list?
Then he sways to the kettle’s whistle
and I choose him again for the fifth time
that day. Choose him through three years
of distance. Through a garden of receipts
and ticket stubs turned love notes. He carried
the pages of my insides to every terminal. Every bus
route we courted an ode to us. Invited me to Atlantic
City on our fourth date, where I met his mom and discovered
how he forged himself. Shed his name, stitched a new one,
learned to whip the perfect frittata. We ate crab legs
with $50 I won at the Walking Dead slot machine
and danced slow-motion on a boardwalk, practicing
patience and humming kisses like butterfly wings.
Regret Tastes Like Ranch and Bad Sex
Slide his newly divorced dick
in my mouth, next to a starched
dresser and a hotel painting to match
the desert beige of his bedroom.
My fuchsia lipstick the only sign of life
on the tour of his big empty house.
Serves me carrot sticks and Ranch,
a snack to foreshadow the mediocrity
to come. A brief transaction.
His cedar-washed hair and tortoiseshell
glasses are freshly minted LL Bean.
Puts more effort into slurping
up the dip than eating me
out. Weigh what he’d do if I slip
on my dress made of water
lilies and flee, but I don’t
think I can
be that brave.
The scent of nonchalance and imitation
campfire coil off him, the not trying too hard
but just enough to convince me.
His cheekbones marble when I can’t
stand any more of his monochrome
inside me. No greasy second date blowjob
after two bites of stale conversation. Before he unzips
an objection, I braid my lips around his throbbing,
ineffable insecurity, because well, I still want him
to freaking like me.
When I leave his house, I compliment the cubes
of cheese and salad dressing he took the time
to prepare. Don’t praise his clean-shaven
cock. Maybe I should. He says his ex-
wife kept their dog because he’s allergic.
His indifferent down vest, puffy with stolen
feathers, tells me the truth—he doesn’t find
value in another life unless it keeps him warm.
I see him once
more after that night. A brief
interaction. Sepia-tone meets technicolor:
rumpled khakis and a worn salmon polo feast
on lush fuchsia. I strut past in gingham pants and ruby
red heels with the sovereignty of a rainforest between
my legs, while he fades back to greyscale.
Siren Song
Mother ripped skin from her belly, filleted a future
of degrees and writing awards, and gave the pieces
to her children, each one born in her house, in her
bed, so we always knew what home felt like. She buried lovers under the salty Florida bedrock,
knit her calves together, coaxed her bones into a new shape, and swam through sienna woods to divorce
in Virginia. A tail of her own. Everything of hers, she made the hard way. Using scales and the softest parts of her, she fashioned us a childhood. We gulped
OJ from mugs that said wild women don’t get
the blues. The same bumper sticker sat on a sea green
Chevy Lumina. Some mornings I fished for quarters and found gum wrappers, cafeteria cheeks hotter
than the rectangle pizza and chocolate pouched milk
I couldn’t afford. Those days, our thumbs hiked
us to school and we missed the fieldtrip. I knew how
to get back home, how to be the straight A my mother never had a chance to be. I wrote essays in her lip liner, won debate championships in her heels.
Meanwhile she took aim on her next paycheck,
eyeing the grotto of utility bills obscured by cobalt glass and the ocean’s finest testimony. Mama,
all seafoam and sand. Her bitter grew worse
when the days turned to ice. Christmas x four children layered atop the sky-raiding cost to heat our home. Adult eyes recognize the trap – drowning in vodka
is cheaper than gas for the winter. At night before
she went out, she paraded before me, a resplendent wine bottle silhouette. Leather boots like seaweed, size 8, mountains of coral red hair, her wealth
in seashells, CDs, and children—Mom was the most exquisite woman I’d ever seen. The softest siren. She’d croon Bonnie Raitt in your ear, hand
you a perfectly intact sand dollar, but come morning,
she vanished.
Amara Tiebout (33-year-old freak) is a queer writer and editor hailing from Washington DC. She edits medical research during the day and scribbles poetry and fantasy novels in her spare time. She believes with her whole 160 lbs in social justice reform, sex positivity, healthcare and reproductive rights for all genders and bodies, and a good latte. Her work has been published by Gnashing Teeth and Lighthouse Weekly and nominated for Best of the Net 2022.
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