The Experience Of Women

Loving You 

“If you fall in love with their soul before touching their skin, it’s true love.” 


Of course I was drawn by the way her eyes lit up, and how her smile played at danger. She’s got this 

way about her, whether she’s arguing Chomsky or quoting Atwood, I get lost in the cosmos of her 

eyes she is magnificent. 

The way her voice lifts and lightens sings a summer song and though I am more at home in the 

midnight, meeting her has often made me dream of the way trees grow toward sun. When she rambles 

of home and reminisces the country fields, I wonder what it would be to see through her eyes. 

But who decides that love must grow a certain way? Who told us to consider our worthiness likened 

to that of a rose: losing petals at the touch of a lover, always left a little less. Because being with her 

has only ever made me more. 


More curious. More awake. More excited. More vibrant. 

More in pain. More in love. More alive. 



Some believe that to touch someone is not to know them, but I’d argue that I couldn’t have told you 

what love might be until she held my hand. 


There was something in the way she brought heat to these aching bones, in the way her fingers 

pressed poetry into the softest parts of me. 

Her kisses taste like salvation 


Her first touch felt like the balmy rain in Spring’s first storm. 


I still feel the lightning, the way it jumped through my blood 


Loving her mind is joy and challenge both, like unravelling knotted yarn. Loving her spirit, the 

privilege of a piety I have never known, and her body. Oh. 


You can call it blasphemy, but I will venerate her with a soul that believes that maybe, 

just maybe, I have found an angel in the midst of chaos. 


I may not pray nor hold a god, but I hold my love for her tightly beneath these frail ribs of mine, close 

to the heart of me. 



Do not blame me for your war, I was not the one that Troy was fought for. 


Call me Witch 

Name me Helen 

I am the lover of the moon 

The one whose blood 

Runs silver 

The harbinger of death 

The beckoner of ships 

Cry my name 

With rousing chorus 



I am the daughter of the sun 

Toppled from the heavens 

In love with the one 

Who can only ever leave 

Mark me dreamer 


For that is what I am 

I am the nebula collapsed 









Author: Kathryn Herron 
Email: kateherron815@gmail.com 
Author Bio: Kathryn lives in Canada’s nation’s capital with her wonderful roommate and their cat, and is currently attending Carleton University for English, Creative Writing, and Medieval and Early Modern Studies. She has an affinity for movies and television and too many books. Kathryn’s poetry frequently delves into the topics of love and pain, exploring relationships between all sorts of couples, as well as topics regarding depression, anxiety, and life challenges. 
Link to social media: Instagram @literary_distillery | Twitter @lit_distillery 


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