bar – Lesbo Verse – Medium

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i am tired

of dyke nights,

too drunk nights,

let’s go out tonight because it’s our only chance until next month nights.

i am sick

of flannel fridays,

rainbow parties in june,

of negotiating space.

i am over

straight bars,

or as most people call them: bars.

i am done

with having to come out every time i decide to go out.

i, umm, i’m sorry sir., but i’m really just not interested.

i know that may be hard for you to believe, but you reek of

cheap beer and misogyny

and i’m, umm, i’m just much more of a

pinot and pussy kinda girl.

where are all of the lesbians in this brick and ivory city?

why haven’t we taken out our toolboxes

strapped on…

…our tool belts

yes. the ones that live in the closets we used to hide in.


come out, come out,

we have our own

wednesday night watering hole to build

seven days a week

snapbacks and birkenstocks, every day

ipa and spiked seltzers



fucking lesbian bar.

give me a


fucking lesbian bar.

i am gay woman,

not a parade,

not a neighborhood association meeting,

i don’t just need love in june, or sex

on the third friday of the month.

i need it

seven ways til’ sunday

seven days and twice on sundays

so, give me a place to buy a drink for that kind-eyed,

curly haired, femme.

let me be impressed that she played basketball at BU,

studied classics,

has been able to keep her cactus alive for more than 3 months.

give me a floor to dance with the tall androgenous woman

who moves her lanky limbs

with amour-propre

like each beat makes her more sure, more grounded, more settled

like her queerness agrees with her, never puts up a fight

would never dare keep her up til’ midnight asking “why?”

“why me?”

give me a chance to take home the butch at the end of the bar

drinking a corona,

undercut freshly shaved,

lips smoothed with vaseline,

arms that look like they can keep me safe

like they were made to keep me safe

made to carry me home

made to hold me into the morning.

give me a tuesday night reading virginia woolf on a barstool.

give me an older, blonde bartender with deep brown eyes, my daily

wing woman,

listening ear,

anthology of queer history.

she knows my name, and my zodiac sign, but she likes to call me ‘honey’ anyway.

she tells me that I remind her of someone she used to know.

tells me that I shouldn’t worry so much,

tells me, “honey, it will all work out.”

give me a reason to believe her.

give me a gender-neutral bathroom

with free tampons in every stall —

one that I am allowed to cry in

when I see my ex-girlfriends making out to whitney houston’s “i want to dance with somebody”

give me a place to feel the heat with somebody.

give me a tegan and sara cover band, with a lesbian vocalist, a nonbinary guitarist, and a black trans drummer who

song by song will take me closer to being back in your head.

give me sapphic sunday afternoons in this city.

our own little rainbow hole in the wall.

is it too much to ask for a

a place to fall in love?

a place to celebrate all that we’ve gone through to get to a place

where we can

dance in public.

where we can

celebrate in public.

where we can

love in public.

is it too much to ask for a


fucking lesbian bar?

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