a collection of shitty poems and feverish thoughts

always and forever a wip

most recent at the top, updated sometimes every other week, sometimes like 10 times a day lolol

my guest book

if you want to see my shitty visual art too (youtube channel)

current favorite song (time-bomb by atlas ivy)

current mood: yearning, rotting, yearning, rotting, projecting onto fictional characters, yearning, rotting, YEARNING AND ROTTING!

images not mine

holding the ladder, or, christmas lights

deep breaths
arms flex
foot braces
can't lean can't slip can't
premature guilt envelops me
adjust footing,
white rubber soles scrape on rough tiles

i glance down to the ground and
my stomach falls

down

down

down

down

down

through the earth far below into hades
like i missed a step going into the basement

now my hands quiver
calves overstretch and ache
keep bracing don't move don't
nerves sizzle on a cast iron skillet
breath comes fast and quiet
lungs desperate

i'm holding the ladder for my father on the roof,
and i'm afraid he'll fall.

i'm holding the ladder for my father on the roof,
and i'm afraid i'll kill him.

scraps from a paper snowflake

i will not be hung proudly on the door or from the ceiling
or taped onto the window for all to see
i am scraped into the trash—
they don't even try and recycle me, they know that
this is the best i will ever get—
i am multitudes shaved from one
my possibilities snipped apart
i am what is left when you remove bits
to make something beautiful

words linger like honey aftertaste

i've always liked my tea far too sweet
i pour loads of honey in
it tastes so lovely until the
sour bitter remnant kicks fills my tongue

i've loved you for months now
you must know, right?
i hope not for if you do
than you are crueler than imagined

you make me feel alive
oh, how beautiful it is for
one boy to love another
but you are the one closest to my fragile beating heart
(hummingbird wings thrum hard and fast
i understand now why they call ribs a cage)
and she is the one for you
(does she make your pulse pound like mine does for you?)

i'll stare out the window and look at the moon
hoping that you see it too
i wish i had told you before
you spoke her name into the cold bright text

you said it so sweetly
the honey in my tea
the quiet between us splintered
a lovely agony
dissolving into just a sour taste once sweet on my tongue

the fields of asphodel (i don't like this one all that much, but i just wanna feel like i'm contributing smth to the world lol)

too perfect for heaven, too flawed for hell
earth is the fields of asphodel

we mill around without an aim
lest we care for someone the same
for we cannot be vulnerable, exposed
or we will be feasted upon by the crows

too cloying for heaven, too bland for hell
earth is the fields of asphodel

our overlords pit us against each other
for their sick deeds require substantial cover
some of the time, we are mostly free
to bring pain or glory as fit we see

too airy for heaven, too stifling for hell
earth is the fields of asphodel

but the drudgery leads, day after day
to us forgetting the dearest names we say
our minds, they fester and rot
o'er each new battle that we've fought

too routine for heaven, too unruly for hell
earth is the fields of asphodel

boy in the attic

like an angel with his wings cut off
blunted bloody back-set stumps
he bends over with a hacking cough
when he sees the light he jumps

scared, sick, shivering cold
blue and hurt, expression grim
he will never get to grow old
but i will not—cannot—tell him

i read aloud my favourite book
he drifts away to endless sleep
i cast him one final soft look
as he dies without a peep

a body has no right to feel this broken over such a small tragedy

one thing piles onto another / each little paper cut layering on top of each other / criss-cross, little hurts on top of littler ones / but give a boy a thousand paper cuts and / the blood will come freely / dizzy, red, iron invading his nostrils / 'til he feels sick

the pile of mistakes in the corner of my room

there they sit.
unnervingly obvious, but
mostly just to me.
they're scattered throughout the dirty laundry,
the cans strewn across the floor,
the rumpled paint-stained sheets,
the can tabs coating every surface,
the flash of white when cloth rides up,
the procrastinated homework shoved to one side,
the memories of my potential outside my window.
they mock me.
they are me.
they are growing with me.
i will never be good.

every fruit is drawn whole except for a pomegranate

blood red dots
s p i l l i n g
out of the core,
onto the wooden counter.
under the sharp metal,
red skin gives way to
pale pith gives way to
red again—
do you see me yet?

venus xtravaganza speech i did for ap lang idk y i'm posting it lol

According to a Duke University study, the median life expectancy for trans people is seven years shorter than their cisgender counterparts. Seven years. It may not sound like all that much, but it's middle school and high school combined. It's the time it takes to raise a child from newborn to second grade. It's 2,555 days, 61,320 hours, or, if you're a Rent fan like me, 3,679,200 minutes.
Venus Pellagatti Xtravaganza was a Latina-Italian transgender woman best known for her interviews in the documentary Paris is Burning, which focused on the New York City ballroom scene in the 80's. She was brutally murdered on December 21st, 1988. Her body was found four days later on Christmas, shoved under a mattress in a hotel room, and her case was never solved despite ongoing efforts from both her biological and found family.
Venus represented not only the beauty of queer art, but also the heartbreaking reality of people all over the US, both then and now. She deserved better, and people in similar situations to hers deserve better. It's imperative that we assign her a day each year during which we can celebrate her, because her pain and bravery represent so many other young transgender and queer people throughout the US.
Additionally, her appearance in Paris is Burning inspired a large number of LGBTQ+ youth to accept their identities and learn to love this too-often stigmatized part of themselves.
Finally, her story exhibits the unfortunate overlap between trans women of color and violence, specifically homicide.
Dedicating a national holiday to Venus would raise awareness about this epidemic of hate and brutality, leading to future lives possibly being saved. If you believe that it's important to acknowledge hate-based homicides and honor a murdered 23-year-old girl's legacy, you should vote for Venus Xtravaganza to get a national holiday dedicated to her.

There is a huge problem in America that too often goes unacknowledged. This problem, broadly, is that transgender women of color are disproportionately murdered in comparison to their white and cis counterparts. To quote Dazed Magazine, "The harrowing violence against trans women of color still echoes today, and Xtravaganza was only one of many unresolved cases." If you vote for my champion, Venus Pellagatti Xtravaganza, you won't just be voting to recognize her as the amazing woman that she was, you'll also be voting to bring attention to the queer and trans community as a whole, especially transgender women of color, like Venus.
Venus was born biologically male under a different first name with the last name Pellagatti. She moved out of her parents’ home and into her grandmother’s down the street in Jersey City in her early teens to participate in the ballroom scene without "embarrassing" her family. She had four brothers and an overall troubled home life, with an abusive stepfather and mother and an absent father. Her grandmother was the only person in her biological family who truly accepted her before her death. After moving, she fell in with the Xtravaganza ballroom house and began to compete in ballroom competitions with them, which are primarily Black- and Latine-led combinations of drag performances, team sports, and modeling shows. Venus quickly rose to local fame, and things were really looking up for her. She had found a more supportive family and was excelling at an amazing art form. Then her life was stolen away, and both her families had to learn how to live without her.
The broad strokes of the story of Venus, as unique as she was, ring true for many LGBTQ+ people, myself included. She represents overcoming challenges to find joy and art in hard times and dark places. She represents being true to yourself, corny as it may sound, and being unapologetically confident. The instant I heard about this assignment, an image flashed in my mind: that of a slight young woman with long dark lashes and light blonde hair teased in such a classic late eighties way. A woman only two years older than my brother is now. I thought of Venus Xtravaganza. Venus deserves a holiday because her joy and art represent that of the LGBTQ+ community. Another reason why Venus deserves to be honored is because so many people have come to terms with their transgender identities because of her part in the documentary Paris is Burning. James Kleinmann, founder and editor of the Queer Review magazine, says that he’s wondered “What would it have been like if I had never seen that film [referencing Paris is Burning]? I think I would have come out a lot later, I think it would have been more difficult.” If it weren’t for Venus being so vulnerable and sharing her story, so many trans people, kids and adults alike, might not have felt like there was anyone else like them, depending on where and when they lived. If you vote for Venus, you’re voting for little kids and elderly adults alike to feel safer, more seen, and more recognized. Finally, as Dazed Magazine said earlier, Venus’ tragic death was unfortunately nothing special. Transgender women of color are much more likely to fall victim to violent crime than cisgender people. Trans people as a whole are four times more likely to have crimes committed against them, a study by the UCLA Williams Institute found. Dedicating a holiday to Venus will bring awareness to these harrowing statistics.

Some people may argue that this is just one girl, and that if we dedicated a holiday to every sad story, we'd have millions a day. Although I do agree that, as terrible as all murders are, it's unreasonable to dedicate a day to each and every one, it's important to step back and refocus on what Venus means, not just as a person, but as a symbol. I am neither a transgender woman nor a person of color, but I am a trans and queer guy. I have been publicly harassed for being perceived as LGBTQ+, I understand the pain of micro-aggressions, I have been misgendered (both maliciously and ignorantly) more times than I can count, I have faced tired ignorance from my extended family over my gender and sexuality, and I have experienced threat of physical harm from strangers simply because they perceived me as something inherently against the laws of nature. I am not saying these things to make you feel sorry for me. I am simply trying to express that, as a young trans person, Venus is so much more to me than simply another murder victim. She symbolizes strength, humor, confidence, tragedy, and found family all at once, and her death symbolizes a larger trend of hate and violence against the trans community, especially non-white transfeminine people. I am not asking you to vote to create a holiday for just another dead girl, killed before her frontal lobe could even finish developing. I am asking you to vote to take a stand against bigotry and prove that Venus' death was not in vain. I am asking you to agree to honor the legacy of an extremely talented young girl that continues to inspire people to this day.
The idea that her death, although sad, doesn't matter that much in the long run is quite frankly abhorrent. It's obvious that hundreds of thousands of people die per day, but to those who say that Venus was just one of them: she is more than that. She is a symbol of joy, freedom, and justice (or lack thereof). And she deserves a holiday.
The average life expectancy in America in 1988, the year of Venus' murder, was 74.77 years. Venus only lived about 30% of that. 30% of a full life. There are many reasons that you should vote for Venus Pellagatti Xtravaganza to get a holiday. Firstly, Venus is a highly important symbol to the queer community, a symbol of love and struggle and life and death. Secondly, Venus' interviews in Paris is Burning have led to so many transgender people, youth and adults alike, to accept their identity and gather the strength to live bravely, just like Venus did. Finally, transgender women, particularly transgender women of color, have a much higher rate of being victimized by violent crime than their white and cisgender counterparts.
If you are queer, vote for her. If you love someone who is queer, vote for her. If you know someone who has been impacted by violence, vote for her. If you believe that a highly important figure whose life was stolen away when she was the age of someone in their junior year of college should get justice in some form or another, vote for Venus Pellagatti Xtravaganza to have a national holiday.
Thank you.

washing my hair, brushing my teeth

fall by the wayside-
stop.
breathe.
go.
fall by the wayside until i'm forced to confront
the haggard yet bloated, disgusting creature in the mirror
with its awkward closed-tooth grin to hide
the yellow of neglect.
maybe he'd like me if i were normal.

tears on my face

salt crusts on my face
i've never been a pretty crier
is there such a thing as beautiful suffering?
if there isn't, i should delete this whole site i suppose
sometimes i think that the haze has dissipated
but then i'm crying alone at 1:30am
heart hurt for no damn reason
i don't want attention
i just need an outlet for this bullshit
that doesn't break my 592 days.

the apocalypse

god will stare down at the earth and
shake its non-existent head.
it'll mutter under its breath that maybe next time,
the file won't corrupt itself.
it'll press ctrl+a, then backspace, and we will just
cease.

it won't try and salvage anything,
we have ruined it all.

it types anew:
<!doctype=html>
<html lang="divine">
<head>
<meta charset="utf-∞">
<style>
body{lonely
}

and so on,
and so forth,
until we blink back into existence.
and the cycle begins anew.

pessimism, or realism

i think we are all wreckage,
broken.
plastic in the oceans, choking each other out
shimmering rainbow oil atop the rain puddles.
i'm pretty sure we're all fucked,
damning each other day after day.
everyone'll go to hell,
if we have anything to say about it.
i bet everyone's gonna live forever,
bloodied and -cidal
(sui- or homi- doesn't matter anymore, it's all the same now)

eukaryotic

i don't know if we're more
advanced, per se—
after all, we need help to make energy:
mitochondria and coffee and oh-so-dreaded sleep.
sometimes i think that the others are smarter;
let me live an existence with my being unfurled inside me,
unrestrained by phospholipids,
few borders within the self,
fewer still on the outside.
let me regress back into simplicity and
know that i will still be loved.

an atheist meets god at a bus stop (loosely inspired by amatullah bourdon)

-you know that i love everybody.
-that's exactly the problem.
-why?
-we didn't earn our fates, just as the fox didn't earn the entrapment in barbed wire, metal slicing down to the bone, crying out to the silent unfeeling forest, vulnerable, hungry.
-i give guidance, i don't remove free will. tell me, if one wishes to self destruct, that is their right, is it not?
-then allow us the same privilege.
-i love my children too much.
-and therein lies the problem. perhaps we don't love you.
-an eternal being is as unlovable as unknowable. the bus is late again.
-is that not part of your divine plan?
-little is. how do you not believe in something right in front of you?
-i believe in very little these days. divinity is not included in that short list.
-what would you call the quiet music in the distance, the gentle breeze against sweat-soaked skin, the bright twinkle of stars long-since dead, if not divine?
-lonely. ah, here it comes, i hope it doesn't hit any more traffic, or else i'll be late.
-so it goes. be the fox if you desire, then, i won't rescue you. enjoy your divinity.
-thank you. enjoy your loneliness.

i added an internal stylesheet...

you win this time, lou.

the orpheus to my eurydice

i plunge myself willingly into hell
and then go and sing a sob story to free myself
"i'm sorry, i didn't mean to"
but i did
i climb up the steps
forgotten my own name
christ, i'm so tired
don't look back
but the siren song of hades calls me
and i risk a glance over my shoulder
for just a second
and just like that, i've lost myself again.
and i don't have anyone left so i have to be

boy with lowered bicycle seat

close to the ground,
knees scrunched.
maybe if you don’t adjust it,
things won’t change.

untitled

on my knees, face upturned
“please save me this time”
blank
unfeeling
a harsh bright gray
skin split open by power lines
the sky does not reply.

always three minutes away

our end and our salvation (for aren’t they one and the same? both strip you of choice and force you through the motions, and both we deny so heavily)
our hurt and our joy (for what is one without the other? torture wouldn’t hurt so bad if it was all that you knew)
our love and our grief (for you cannot help but grieve something you loved, and you cannot help but love something you grieved)

idk man...

i shouldnt post here if i have nothing to say. i'm sorry.

no i won't add a stylesheet, inline css for life

if i rot prettily enough,
can i save you?
can my decay erase the painful blight from your mind?
if i remove strips of my soul,
and lay them upon your heart,
will you heal?

siempre estoy aquí.

el tiempo pasa con un fervor desperado
no puedo respirar en este aire frío
para ti, estoy esperando
los colores del mundo cambian
donde por las calles estoy pasando
las personas mueren y nacen
siempre estoy aquí.

mis amigos dejan sus pelos
y converten a la religión del nihilismo
nada les importa
nada es el mismo
nunca voy a cambiar
el tiempo pasa sin el permiso
siempre estoy aquí.

tú desapareces de mi vida
sin una alarma de algún tipo
él siempre olvida
sobre nuestras promesas
yo quiero tener una salida
de este mundo cambiante
siempre estoy aquí.

songbird with a snapped neck

you look up at me with those blank trusting eyes
your body's covered in berries
perhaps the tree under which you lay didn't want you to starve
wherever you are now

it looks like someone stepped on you after your death
smashed fruit congealing in your rumpled feathers
your death is beautiful because it's not

my face is blank like yours, songbird.
does that make me beautiful too?

to him

i hope that someday you will find peace in the arms of another. i know that i cannot provide what you need, and that i cannot have what i want. i hope that someone will make you see the beautiful gentle softness in your eyes, for you are not your father. i hope that you find love, whether that be with a boy or a girl or both or neither or whatever else. i hope that you will be happy. i hope that you will live. i hope that you will shake off the thick slow molasses of the forever ache and move on into a brighter night. i hope that we will stay friends and grow forever closer, or that you will forget me completely in a matter of months. i hope that more people see your art and admire your golden soul. i hope that you learn to love yourself- because of all your flaws, not in spite of them. i hope. i hope. i hope.

i hate how the tiniest things can make me spiral

sure, i potentially made the entire rest of the school year in my favorite class probably boring and humiliating, since EVERYONE FUCKING SAW ME, but what's the big deal? it's not like it's my one remaining anchor to sanity and life ahaha...ha.....ha.............

composed of phrases from it's called: freefall, linger, and iris

sundown, sundays, christmas
everything's meant to be broken
you know i'm such a fool for you
can't fight the tears that ain't comin'
i thought the world of you
but don't get me ventin'
i'm in so deep
i just want you to know who i am
you bleed just to know you're alive
was it just a game to you?
you could let it all go
it's called freefall

untitled

every time i see you i hold in my affection like a sneeze,
silly as it may sound.
i know that if i were to tell you, i would ruin you.
even succulents die under my touch,
i don't want to add more to your heaping plate.
so instead i'll write mediocre fake-deep poetry and think of the star-ridden night sky
instead of looking at it out my window.
in my mind, i can pretend it's attainable.

no one reads these, i'm sure, but this is a poem about love, or death. is there a difference?

i wish that your soft yet brutal touch had never grazed my face.
you gripped my chin gently and forced me to look into your deep eyes
(i always hated eye contact, it was so difficult for me)
"this is your new normal now"
and you shattered me into a million pieces
i glued myself back together with coagulating blood,
but some of the pieces aren't quite right.
i'm rearranged,
forever altered.
i have lost something inside me,
and a foreign organ lounges in its place.
i am so lonely.

untitled, 10/14

i read your biography and mentally edit it into an obituary.
is becomes was,
will becomes would've,
doing becomes did,
you become dust.

to the person who reads the notes section of my psat to make sure i didn't cheat (if there is such a role):

you are the only one who will ever keep,
even for a brief instant,
a glimpse inside of my brain.
i could not save those poems and thoughts and emotions for later use;
i scarcely recall what i typed.
you are the only living proof that i existed eight hours ago.
that i felt,
that i created,
that i felt so alone in a room full of people and abcd bubbles that i
shaped microscopic universes with the pushing of buttons.
i hope you like them,
my sorry excuses for poems.
in them my soul lies naked.

untitled, 10/6

don't know how to reach out
pale sunless hand groping for the sun
like a plant much lighter than it should be
starved for the warmth
instead, i'm just quietly stunted
i wish i could talk to you

broken sweetly

candied orange peels fill in the gaps in my bones
do you taste the bittersweet when i smile?
do you know the extent of the lovely agony you evoke in me?
do you notice the lingering sweet scent of almonds as i pour the cyanide?
do you read my poems like the lines on my palm, the engravings in my heart?
will you tell my fortune with the stories you find in my soul?
will you sit with me as the world ends
just two brown-haired boys in wallingford park at dusk
stars shining through our eyes?

i'm deadass so pathetic lmao

the smallest thing leaves me grinning and giddy...r doesn't even know what it meant

idfk man

hot chocolate eyes / crooked smile / i wish that they'd notice / we could be something worthwile

i'm edwin payne, he's charles rowland

best mates forever......

there's this boy i know

there's this boy i know,
and he holds the ocean in his eyes
a drop of rain landing for every small hurt

there's this boy i know,
and he's scared of turning into his father
abrasive and intolerant and unlistening

there's this boy i know,
and he manages to be apologetically himself
expressing himself however he likes
but always with a hint of guilt

there's this boy i know,
and he does everything differently from what i'm used to
and isn't that just so damn beautiful

there's this boy i know,
and he always has a kind word to spare
and a crooked smile to flash
and an awkward thumbs-up to offer
and he makes me feel so seen

there's this boy i know,
and his honey quartz eyes are as sweet as the name suggests
warm gaze like hot chocolate
on a rainy february day

there's this boy
there's this boy
there's this boy

they don't care,

so i'll try not to. i'm in too deep, though. i think it's too late.

i don't know what i feel.

how can i?

what i really mean when i say i'm doing good

there are days when i must hide in my room
afraid to look in the mirror at my swollen chest
and shrunken throat.
there are also days in which i need to feel
e
v
e
r
y
t
h
i
n
g
.
even a simple breeze,
i want to feel it ruffle my soft feathers
sway my long branches
skim the water in which i swim.
i want to experience the world all at once
always
and also...
not at all
ever.
for now, i must be content with this one life
but it feels a lot harder to reach infinity
than zero.

icarus and apollo

i long for the love of patroclus and achilles
but i fear that i am more like the icarus
to his apollo.
for he has many adoring followers and observers
through clear days and eclipses alike.
i am but one of them,
and he may prove to be my downfall.
as i plummet into the cold ocean,
he will watch from far above,
attention only half on me.
i am devoted,
he is distracted.

trans boy on his period

i) boy with copper on his jeans
proof of the pain of his insides shredding themselves
from the inside out
ii) days measured not in hours but in
plugs of cotton, his very
knowledge of their existence proving that he's
not who he says he is
iii) emotional rollercoaster, abdominal agony
but boys don't cry, especially not
over something like this
iv) carefully tied flannel to hide the rusty
stains, please stop
bleeding
v) light-headed, dizzy, chomping down
advil like candy,
trying to buy time until the
inevitable occurs and he has to
lie down at last
vi) scrub hands and between the legs,
nausea rising like
scarlet clots in bathwater;
he hates his body and what it makes him.

1:23 pm

a magical number they say,
some kind of holy connotation, they say
"make a wish" but
my only wish is to never again be
frozen in a moment, unable to
act or love or feel again

walkout

the world is ending
we don't own our own bodies
there are at least twelve active genocides (and five potential ones)
children are being slaughtered in schools
rapists are leading our country
and you're protesting having two lunch periods?

flannel doesn't mean butch, strangers.

i love being trans and queer
but people assuming i'm a lesbian
and calling me that as an insult
makes me wish i lived in a time where
pants meant boys
so i would be one

(of course i would also probably be hung or burned at the stake but that is neither here nor there)
(also i promise i like lesbians it just sucks sometimes and i doubt they like when people assume they're men)

untitled

scurry up the cliffside with madness
assign importance to anything at all
claw as you slide off the edge
dirt and rocks under your torn fingernails
ledges crumbling beneath your feet
you look down and see yourself turning to dust.

no mental healthcare means death (edited version)

this year i'm at school,
yes, high school,
and i look around
and i just see
slumped shoulders
weary eyes
tight mouths.
i listen to others' jokes of
"oh haha guess i'll just kill myself"
but they've been losing humor
the delivery more numb each time.
and the counselors are overloaded
so students can't get proper help.
and therapy is too expensive
even through the school.
and anti-depressants are rarely covered by insurance
same with anti-anxiety meds.
and kids are too afraid to report abuse
of all kinds
fearing retaliation from their parents.
no mental healthcare means death.

two falls ago i was in the hospital,
yes, that kind,
a short-term stay, in theory.
i looked around and saw kids my age or younger
who got daily phone calls from their parents
fury-filled
"you're a waste of money, you're coming out early"
but they weren't ready
and they'd be back soon enough.
mysteriously, these phone calls would end
as soon as the deductible was hit.
no mental healthcare means death.

two years ago i was in the hospital,
yes, that kind,
and I had a friend there
(although friends are discouraged)
and she was on her third behavioral health unit in a row
no going home in between.
"my parents just don't want to deal with me,"
she explained
"i've been everywhere in washington and oregon."
and so i asked her
"are you ready to go home?"
she non-answered
"my discharge date is right after yours"
(even though she got there first)
"but who knows where i'll go next."
she was struggling
but because longer-term care
is more money
she was placed in a crisis sector.
and another.
and another.
none providing the type of care she needed
because those places are meant for actively at-risk kids
after i was released i sent her an email
she didn't reply.
i never found out what happened to her.
no mental healthcare means death.

two years ago i was in the hospital,
yes, that kind,
when i tried to take my life.
i stopped myself before i did
and told the nurses
because i was trying to get better.
the nurses came in and yelled.
they yelled at a scared fourteen-year-old.
took away my books
took away my drawings
took away my blanket.
i fell asleep under a glorified piece of cardboard
and woke up bright and early
because my psychiatrist was in my room
yelling at me.
"i thought you wanted to get better!"
a tear rolled down my cheek
because i was trying
but there wasn't enough support there for me
not one therapy session.
i didn't get my things back until i was discharged
they kept my art
and didn't change my discharge date depite the attempt.
no mental healthcare means death.

two years ago i was in the hospital,
yes, that kind,
and i had another friend there
(although friends are discouraged)
and she had an eating disorder
and no one noticed
because we weren't in the edu.
no one noticed that she was suffering
in yet another hell than the one they were trying to fix
and she was too afraid to reach out
because these places are just so we don't die for a week.
no mental healthcare means death.

two years ago i was in the hospital,
yes, that kind,
and i saw a girl rendered unable to speak
by what she'd seen and been through
she was unable to leave her room
unable to leave her bed
but you had to participate in group activities to get discharged
and she physically couldn't.
silenced by her own mind
no one could help her find her voice.
she came to two activities before i left.
and i never heard her speak once.
no mental healthcare means death.

we are dying.
we are dying by our own hands
because we can't afford mental health care.
universal healthcare wouldn't just save lives from physical problems
it'd also save us from our internal agony.
no mental healthcare means death.

we are dying by our own hands.
because people can't afford the hospital
or therapy
or meds
or diagnoses.
no mental healthcare means death.

we are dying by our own hands
because the system is failing,
and no one cares
and no one is trying to fix it.
no mental healthcare means death.

my guardian angel is one of fear, and that is beautiful

for on those nights
pills or bedsheet or sharpener in my hand, my angel whispered to me
"what if you are wrong
and what if they do love you
and what if you can't come back from this?"
and they gently pried the instrument from my hand
i cried and called them cowardly
they cried and called me sacred.

a poem for someone who won't know, 9/11/25

You called it beautiful.
We made something beautiful.
We were beautiful.
You are beautiful.

To the boy who sits across from me and calls me a girl:

Do you recognize your second-grade playmate from the days of dress-up and stage kisses for our made-up plays? Did me changing my name make me a different person altogether? Do you even know who I was? What changed in six years to make you go from a sweet, nerdy boy to a wannabe bigot throwing around the words "retarded" and "gay" whenever something so much as slightly inconveniences you? It's strange to think that I know you, but perhaps you don't know me. I still remember your rabbit, surely dead by now. She wasn't exactly thriving when I met her all those years ago, limping freely around your room because she couldn't walk too well. Your sister took photos of us in costume for our little plays (what happened to them?), and now you're the type to call a boy in a costume a fag. Do you like who you are now? Do you even know that you've changed? Do you ever wonder what happened to your best friend from second grade, and if she grew up into the boy you call a girl?

old and a little embarassing, but no one will see this so...

"no one can own me."
a sentiment often spouted
by the defiant,
the rightfully angry
but how can it ever be true
when our courts are stripping our rights to our
insides; organ and muscle and fat alike, when
only 3% of rapists spend a single fucking
day in jail and one in five women and one in sixteen men are violated in college alone and
nowhere feels safe when walking home late at night unless the stranger in the corner perceives you as a cis-het able-bodied white man,
how can we say that no one owns us?
more importantly, how can we take back our lives?
it starts, like many things, with the rain.
the soft calming drizzle that we
too often take for granted,
thunderous downpour washing us clean clean clean of palmprints and hurled catcalls,
the light sprinkle after a long dry spell, producing that special scent pertichor--
did you know that humans are 200,000 times more sensitive to petrichor than sharks are to blood?
that relief from drought is the life flowing through our blue veins--
and the storms strong enough to shake the window panes,
let the thunderclaps drown out the cries of "not all men not all men not all men" and let the
lightning sear the image of too-tan men with skeletal bleached grins and cold cold hearts from your retinas replacing it with
bright white, endless possibilities, terrible and great until you can say
"no one owns me" honestly because
no matter how many chains they tie
around your body,
they cannot break your spirit.