The first time we had sex without a condom,
you bent me over against a tree on a
golf course in Massachusetts.
We waited for all the cars to pull out of the lot,
dregs clearing out from a cheerleading
competition, building our anticipation.
We held hands walking across the
decaying grass, my legs budding with
goosebumps in the chilled November air.
It didn’t take long to find the perfect tree
overlooking a pond iced with orange and red leaves.
It was quick and passionate, warming me
from the inside. I wanted us to last
longer but didn’t know how to tell
you without hurting your heart.
When it was over, we walked back to
the car, hand in hand. You trailing out from
me like tears that leak from a child’s eyes in the night.
©2021 Aimee Nicole All rights reserved.
Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.