She could see my gaze lingering,
even if she’d demanded or asked.
I couldn’t tell her it was her I’d seen—
because it wasn’t her, not exactly.
It was her body, her curves, her hips,
an echo of a language I was learning,
begging to wrap my tongue around.
A tangled mind of urgent need,
even if she’d demanded or asked.
I’d admit I’m another lonely boy,
reaching out to covet a goddess,
unable to convey any emotions—
and yet still reaching all the same,
full and blinded by a selfish desire.
It’s an impulse my mind fails to name,
yet my body whispers it each second,
repeating each syllable like a name.
It answers in the creeping darkness,
laying awake, pondering its meaning,
avoiding the uncomfortable truth—
yet seduced by all its clarity and reason.
I’m just a young man in a woman’s skin,
feeling and speaking utter blasphemy,
giving old traditions the middle finger
without an ounce of hate in my heart.
How old must a good woman grow
before she can sit in comforting clarity
and state the solid facts of her desire?
Sarah Corbin is a queer poet from Florida whose work examines identity, femininity, autonomy, and the emotional aftermath of survival. Drawing from gothic imagery, memory, and the tensions between performance and authenticity, her poetry inhabits the space where tenderness and ruin meet.
