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Maggie Olson



No plain Jane

From the moment she walked into the the room I was struck:
heavy lined eyes almost overwhelmed her face, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail

that brushed against her hips as she walked. She was a fucking universe
disguised as a woman.
I’d never wanted anyone more.

All the boys I’d kissed
seem so insignificant –
string lights trying to outshine the full moon.
I was silly putty in her hands,
she could make me any shape she chose to.
I don’t think she ever knew
the way she blasted my world apart
and let me emerge as someone new.
We lost touch quickly,
as crushes tend to do.
Still, I can never forget what she made me feel, it’s written all over me underneath my skin: queer, queer, Queer!
It might as well be the oxygen in my blood. Thank you, Jane, for teaching me to breathe.




not woman


The word flows smoothly off my tongue except for the tiny, jagged piece
that lodges in the back of my throat and refuses to budge.

I’ve never spoken fully before;
that little piece has always cut off a part of my voice. I will speak my truth in full now:
I am not a woman.
Nor am I a man.

I live somewhere in the glorious space between the two, dancing on the stars sprinkling that sacred universe.
I circle woman like a moon,
never quite touching.

Ah, this is what it feels like to live in my truth, finally free to use my full voice.

Maggie Olson (she/they) is a poet and adventurer who lives in Chicago with their spouse and a cranky box turtle. When they aren't writing you can find them in the woods or on a beach somewhere. Find more at

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