Table of Contents

“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.

What he said meant nothing, but his tone fixed me in his storm of articulation. Mom cried, “But why do you want to be a boy?” Silence followed, a thick fog I was lost in. I could not find my way to say I felt more like a woman when in the arms of one. They shamed me with the only beauty I had.

I moved to a studio. Finally alone, I stared into my face, searching. I liked what I saw, a smooth forehead, black hair pulled back, lips the color of raw steak, eyes fierce with freedom. Emma lay in my bed, her lean body tucked into mine, her large hands on my shoulders, her whispers repeating all is well.

It was years before my father spoke to me and then it was only about hurricanes and football. Mom stood by me after getting over her shock. She even met Emma, complimented her on her makeup and dresses, but who knows if she meant it. She was rarely sober.

Since she has been dead, I write poems about my mother, some are soft with compassion, others throbbing with anger. I still journal, but I keep no secrets. Words are powerful. I give them away so they cannot be stolen.