If only I could have two lovers

I really need a spare

in case one of them goes flat

I really need a pair.

My Sunday lover stays in bed

caters to my every whim

I drown in his embrace

as I take him for a spin.

My Monday man woos me

and brings me flowers,

touches and caresses me

ready and willing for hours!

I have a hot passionate libido

so I have to switch hit with them

the first tells me I am his love

the second brings me gems.

But I have other days to fill

so will have to take more lovers

I need to feel the heat again

underneath my satin covers.

The only problem I encounter

Is remembering who is who

Often their prowess seems alike

I pin name tags on to give a clue.

Or maybe I’ll ask my swains

To wear different colors to signify

which one is Monday or Saturday

if it become necessary to clarify.

Or I could rate them by numbers

Saturday would be number seven

Wednesday would be four -

oh, this has to be my heaven!

So many men becomes confusing

I keep wanting to cut back

But I find it very difficult to choose

which ones to romp with in the sack.

I’ve decided to burn my diary

so no one will know about my guys

I know my story will be embellished,

salty kernel of truth in all the lies.

That uncomfortable, nagging feeling is back. I knew drinking three bottles of water before going to bed was going to do that to me, yet I still did it. Sighing, I slowly got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. The light blinded me for a few seconds causing me to squint my eyes.

As I relieved myself, I yawned and stretched my body, dragging my hands over the flat planes of my chest.

Wait. Flat chest?

Something isn't right here.

I was too tired to actually check it out so I just grabbed some tissue and proceeded to wipe myself. 

Except I couldn't.

I gasped, looking down and clutched my chest, eyes wide in shock. No, no, no, no. This is not possible. I must be dreaming. That's it! I'm dreaming. All I have to do is close my eyes and this will all go away, I thought to myself.

I stood up and slowly walked to my body length mirror with my eyes closed. 

"Okay, here we go. One, two, three!" My eyes flew open and a piercing scream ripped through the bathroom. I closed my mouth and realized it was me screaming. 

This was not a dream. It was still there in all its glory, staring at me, mocking me.

I remembered my chest and I ripped my shirt off, revealing my flat chest. I passed my hands over my chest, feeling for any kind of lump, any indication that I could still be a female.

I felt none. 

"No! This cannot be happening!" I shrieked out loud, grabbing at my short locks.

I gasped again. My long, black, luscious locks were gone. In its place was a short quiff like look.

All of the evidence was there. This is not a dream. This is in fact, real. 

I am no longer a female. 

Give me the wings

of streamlined blue heron

I was born to fly

above melancholy vistas,

no teardrops on my feathers

soaring above capture, dipping

and gliding like windblown kite.

Skimming back and forth

through gilded thoughts.

Washed at midnight

by soothing moonbeams.

sparks of stars igniting,

opening wings

to life’s possibilities.

Peering down at shadow

of myself through veil

of patched sunlight,

staring gravity

in its face.

Gliding without weight

wind at my back

sunrises kisses

and serenity breaths.

Flying in a cradle

of beamed illumination.

Stretched wings of freedom.

the boy lays on a guilt swelled stomach,

counting the spots of a butterfly,

thinking the total will deliver him

from colorless afternoons.

he picks it up and rubs the dusty wings,

making wishes before plucking

them off and tells the twitching body

that it can have his name, and

he will he will use the flaps to fly,

keeping them to float upon wind,

like spoons that carry freedom to

bruised lips, cupped like an infant,

he can live within the grass

and the bug can sleep in his room,

where it's safe because the

little insect is too frail to take a beating,

and the angry hands he knows

aren't mad enough to stop a heart.