in praise of soft armor by Lemon

every woman i’ve loved has taught me

a new way to survive.

some with teeth, some with the backs of their knees,

some just by saying my name

like it was something holy.

when she says come here,

i forget every bruise this world gave me

for being too much girl, or not enough.

we meet in the middle—

our hands speaking the dialect of callused tenderness.

this kind of love is not passive,

it’s a muscle you flex against a history

that said: don’t. said: hide. said:

this isn’t yours to have.

but we take it anyway.

we kiss in grocery stores, on sidewalks,

in the soft shadows of libraries.

we fuck like it’s a spell—

like undoing every lie they told us

about what love is supposed to look like.

being a lesbian means knowing

what it is to be watched

and choosing to be seen anyway.

we wear joy like a leather jacket—

something tender disguised as tough,

something that smells like every woman

i’ve ever wanted to make a home with.

& god,

how we love.

with our whole teeth.

with our fingernails painted black or bitten off.

with laughter in the kitchen,

her thighs around my face,

the scent of garlic & skin.

they told me queerness would make me lonely.

instead it gave me this—

this woman at the center of every prayer,

this joy that dares to be loud,

this life carved out of the impossible.