“I Wrote About My Lovers in My Journal” Kristina Morgan – Honorable Mention
How we sweated belly to belly, our thighs on fire, our mouths searching for what we wanted to keep, fingers tangled in each other’s hair. I remember Gabrielle smelled of mint, Liza was salty sea, and Emma, patchouli. The summer after I turned eighteen I came home, saw my journal open, my secret revealed. I found my mother in her room, dusting her perfume bottles. “Why?” I screamed. “If you can go into my closet for a belt, I can read anything of yours I damn well please.” She did not turn to look at me, her back flat against me like a stop sign. “I don’t want you here,” she said. I knew she’d tell Dad. And she did. Over dinner. “You know how much I hate fags!” he screamed, loud enough to startle our nearly deaf dog. Poetry
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