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)

my neocities

current favorite song (franklin shepard, inc. from merrily we roll along)

current mood: procrastinating studying for my APs by updating this ;-;-;-;-;

images not mine

Eurydice Attends Her Own Funeral

She lays her hand on his shaking shoulders;
   it's been days but he's more gone than ever
      (eyes blank, rocking   back
            and forth
            and back
            and forth
            and—).

Take comfort, lover,
   she whispers.
He only hears the wind   the wind   the wind;
   an echo in a cave and it's too late because he
      didn't hear it when it mattered.

There is a bouquet of red carnations sitting on a table,
   (red like angry snakebitten skin
   a sunrise through   thick choking smoke,
   blood pooling on the   bathroom floor)
thorns removed in case   Orpheus
gets any   bright ideas.

The casket is   beautiful, as caskets
   so often are.
The hinged lid is
p r e c a r i o u s l y balanced, and Eurydice is
      afraid that it will fall onto Orpheus' vulnerable neck.
She moves her free hand to hold it away from the pale s(k)in
   (Atlas holds up the world).
Dark cherrywood glistens like the blood on her fingertips.

Good night, Orpheus whispers, his
   songbird voice rusty from disuse.
Good night, Eurydice repeats, her
   form collapsing violently into shadows once more.

Swing Set

I don't get motion sick,
but something about the dizzying back and forth of my heart—
   so close to freedom as I
   get too high and the chains or ropes go slack,
   my wax wings melting and warming then burning my skin
   until I feel like I might just pick right up and fly—
then I crash back down to the ocean spray as my father watches,
inscrutable expression on his face,
metal and fiber going taught 'til I
jerk hard—
   always testing the structural soundness of
   things better left alone—
wondering if I will fall to the ground,
which is sickness,
which I throw myself onto every fortnight or so,
my upside-down head thinking
it is the air,
or worse,
knowing it isn't.

Swings make me sick,
along with many other things:

people, especially me;

the way hearts keep beating after someone is
long dead, three years and counting;

the betrayal of my body in
so many ways, creaking and cracking and
punishing me for punishing it;

the ways I hurt that people can see:
scars and braces that I intermittently try to hide and
display as proof, saying here is where the pain is;

the ways I hurt that people can't:
the sickness in my stomach,
the woodchip splinters in my heart,
the burning droplets of wax on my mottled back;

my inability to stomach how much we can stomach;

my favorite poet dying on my sixteenth birthday,
even as their voice echoes through my head via
their Spotify account whose bio still
says is and not was;

the way I try to mimic their soul with my own;

my trembling heartbeat of
I am here,
we are still listening;

self-destruction,
black rubber pad covering
woodchipped playground earth that I
fling myself onto from
the swing where I lived the
briefest life of magic
in a sky full of endless void and
just a handful of cloudy stars.

Nausea rises from my stomach and
spills out my throat,
not-so-gently putting its hands on my shoulders and
pressing down hard,
fingertip bruises on my collarbones
stopping my momentum.

For just a moment, I think the
cycle has ended, but then I
remember that this is just another part of the heartbreak.

I don't get motion sick.

Our First Date was the Apocalypse

A rivulet of sweat dares to trickle down my beaten brow.
I flick it off with the back of my left hand, angry that I can't
scrub away the fog obscuring my vision.

I think of Sylvia Plath's fig tree.
I have sat so long in this dewy field of bluebells that
all of the fruit has rotted around me,
my dreams decaying along with the plums in my childhood backyard.

Your sapphire eyes focus in on me, somehow
reading the meaning behind my refusal to admit defeat.

"You know, if you're warm, we can go into the shade,"
you offer tentatively.

I shake my head decisively, feeling my heart
beat the diamond ichor through my veins.

I only feel alive when the rain falls, and
a storm is brewing over the horizon.

"I love you," I whisper, apology in my eyes.
You nod silently, your crescent-moon smile a sure-fire sign of forgiveness.

We link hands and watch as the
violet sky falls.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

Joints sound out with the noise of
glow sticks cut in two, but
when I turn the lights off, there's no
plutonium color to me.

I wish I would shine in evening-time,
but my skin is stubbornly solid.

The hurt is just funny now,
humor obscured in my pitch midnight bedroom.

Amanita Muscaria, or Frogs in the Rain

Will you just
sit with me?
For just a moment?

I promise I won't take up too much of your
precious sapphire time, I just
need to feel the cool rain on my skin and
your warm shoulder pressed against mine.

Our atoms are almost
interlinked like our
fingers are.

Will you sit with me under the rain?
Which is to say:
do you love me?

Smoke Rises from a Burning Memory

I think that I feel so lost because I am a living amputation.
Of what, I do not know.
I do not think I want to know.
But I am
   irreplaceably
      inexplicably
         unwhole.

Maybe it is because the world is mutilated.
The second part of that was a fact:
   the world is
      irrefutably
         indisputably
            broken.
Its jagged flesh edges squirm with residual life—
   a lizard's cut-off ta(i)l(e)—
      as we
         dig the serrated bread knife of pollution—
            not (just) the burning fossil fuel type, but the
               miasma that every evil action produces—
                  deeper into the universe.

I listen to music
   (just one song, really)
      in a language that I have very little auditory comprehension of.
This probably does not bode well for my AP test score.
I cannot find it in myself to care, because
   when I was born, the doctors carved me out of my world and
      sent me here, swapping me and the rightful human.
Maybe that is why I am odd,
   why I am never enough.
Maybe it is because in the back of people's minds,
   they know that I should be someone else,
      someone better.

I am an amputation from the world,
   and the tourniquet that should've cut the emotional flow has
      loosened with my sixteen years of scratching until
         bandages peel back from lithospheric skin.

Louisiana Summer Evening

The sky darkens—
this is hurricane zone, child, so just
be glad that the humid air is navy and not
dark red like the pomegranate seeds that spill out of your veins.

Blur

We are wisps of smoke
You try and grasp my ankle but your
clumsy fingers pass right through
You are grounded
I cannot land

Self-soothing Behaviors

I tilt my chair back
I'm almost falling, I couldn't care less
My mother rocked baby me to sleep
I seek safety in motion
Back and forth and back and forth
Don't stop moving, the thoughts will start

Poem to Myself, Aching as I Am

No one knows the caterpillar that curls up in me.
No one knows my heart is a quivering tree, branches wet with dew I carry through the world toward my scars.
No one knows the song I softly hum.
But I do. I do.
I will wake today and put on my skin.

I will walk today and adjust the brightness of the world around me.
I will limp until I swallow the moon.
Caterpillar curling, curling, curling.

Under the Diseased Apple Tree

I place my hand on the small of your back, always
   pushing you away from me.

This swing is almost twelve years old,
   and I can't remember the last time my dad
   precariously clambered up a ladder,
   his wiry build laboriously
   yanking the rope up—
      always trying to accommodate my
      ever-lengthening legs.

My next push hits slightly too far to your left, leaving you
   spinning slightly.

You grip the rope tightly,
   your hand coming away with clear sap.

Ack, this'll never come off,
   you gripe,
   trying to shake the tree's lifeblood off your
   too-clean hands.

Sorry, it's been a few years since anyone's been on this thing,
   I respond.

I keep my voice flat so you can't
   sense the complexity beneath the statement.

Even though I haven't sown seeds—
      those little packages of promise that I
      always killed before they could sprout—
   in springtime for many years,
   shoots of green poke through the ground at our feet.

Bulbs,
   however neglected,
   tend to find a way to survive.

Someday,
      my father had promised when I had once again
      read a new book and proposed
      yet another activity more fun in theory
      than in practice,
   we'll go a-maying.

I hadn't yet learned what mollification was.

Perhaps I still haven't, because
   here I am,
   pushing you on my childhood swing.

Waiting.

Spiraling

Throwing my body around my bed each night,
   turning and turning in the widening gyre,
   tossed about by
   Boreas over the
   unforgiving blank ocean.

I've been dreaming more lately.
I see people rooting around in my drawers,
   finding thin metal that I swear I didn't hide,
   but I know that I did.

Everything reminds me:
   the Boeing pen I found on the ground,
      so many functions, so useful,
      ruler and pen and screwdriver
      all in one;
   the unsharpened pencil likewise discovered—
      funny how my self-destruction always comes from
      words words words,
      I suppose we all burn ourselves under the guise of creativity;
   the sale at QFC, whispering
       just 99¢ for perfect grounding,
      we both know you want it.

I've been fighting a war against my own body for as long as I can remember.

Maybe it's time to wave the blood-spattered white flag and
   go.

Purpose Behind Purposelessness

Write because you are forced to feel
What other reason is there?

You don't have to write too heavy
It's okay for art to be light

Write about what you love
Write about what you despise

Write because you are alive
What other reason is there?

How to be a good son:

Drink coffee in rash quantities
Ignore your hobbies, friends, and leisure time
School and sports matter more

A list of things one can carve:

i. Turkey
It wasn't one of my own—
the one I had picked out sat too
still, too trusting.

ii. Stone
Slightly grimy, I
nonetheless dug into it with my pocketknife.
All that anger has to go somewhere.

iii. Skin
You would never call me violent,
but it's undeniable that
blood coats my hands like a layer of slick polish.

iv. Soap
Piles of shavings of cleanliness are
heaped on the floor.
I never knew when to stop the blade.

v. Time
Each pass of metal scrapes off another
caked-on day.
I wish I could do it quicker.

Meet Me at Another Time

Gentle placement of death by a thousand little hurts:
a kind heart-nosed stick-and-poke skull sits among
infinite pink jet trails
burned into
tan sky.

The grim reaper doesn't kill, it just
guides the already-dead.

What a lovely life to have a guide—
with everyone eventually,
regardless of gender, class, race, whatever else—
among the pain.

It reminds you that no matter what,
one day,
you will have someone in your corner.

The flat will raise and then even out again—
white to red to pink to white—
but death will stay,
patiently waiting, hoping that
you will delay your meeting until
another day.

Dysphoric

I press my arms against my chest—
maybe if I squeeze these pale blobs of dough with their
marred purple "lip gloss lines" tight enough against my body they will
hide the sin of being born Wrong—
and purse my lips
(a feminine trait, very
Professor McGonagall of me;
if only JK Rowling didn't think I was sexist for
existing in a body I didn't choose)
as I regard my unsatisfactory frame.

Maybe if I turn the lights out and
pretend I didn't see anything,
I can convince myself that I'm just
a swirling void of a man
instead of a malformed mockery,
curvy in all the wrong places.

Abandoned Church

Still I sit, dust-covered ruin
Is an abandoned holy place still pure?
Floorboards ache for dancing feet

Family Tree and You

I swallow my pride like the
sour buttermilk that my
grandmother told me to drink one
cloudy June mid-morning.

"Do it so you can say you did,"
she said in that high-pitched Texan drawl, her
tattooed-on eyebrows raising in amusement.

As the pale liquid touched my lips, my
face screwed up tight, a
crumpled tissue in the wastebasket.

She laughed at my expression,
not cruel,
just amused.

I still don't know if she was fucking with me or
if it was a family
tradition.

Tradition.
My family has a tradition of getting pregnant,
marrying young,
dying late of some horrible disease.

I don't want to be my father,
or my mother,
much as I love them.
I don't want my parents' life.

You say your goal is to make me
desire life for as long as possible.

That's a heavy burden to lay upon oneself.
I can always count on you to be a martyr, but it
causes issues when we throw ourselves over each other to
save the other
with our sacrifice.

It's like that drawing where
Charles and Edwin
(oh, my beloved symbolic alter egos)
contort their bodies to cover the other,
uncaring for their own safety.

The only way we know how to protect is to
get ourselves injured but
we will live.

That's the terrifying part:

we will
endure,

sour buttermilk on our tongues—
burnt from
drinking London Fogs or
steamed milk too hot.

No matter how singed we are by this
great and terrible thing we call
life,
it will continue.

I think it hits us
all at the same time that
maybe we'll live long enough to
grow up.

Pavement Weed

Fresh through concrete I force myself—
it hurts but
the scrapes—
the fight—
make me feel alive.

Next to Normal

Silhouettes show more than a detailed image.
My brain is filled with rainbow crazy noodle fidgets and
childhood Lincoln Logs and
orange pill bottles and
treble clefs and
lightning bolts.

My name fades into oblivion as you move to the right.
Can you still see me?

Blue

Blue is the color of
abashed eyes pointed downwards, the
soft lilt in
I thought you knew.
It's the rough track of a shaky ballpoint script,
deep grooves in paper,
water droplets bleeding the ink like a
crushed flower petal
(I promise I was trying to preserve it, I don't
mean to hurt things).

It's the calm sound of ocean waves and
the jolt of thundering clouds,
flowing like anger, like calm, like sentience itself
(Are you angry? Do you love me?
Blue answers yes, yes, yes, yes, yes to
whatever you might ask).

It's the soft blanket that took
hours—
weeks, really—
to make, only to sit abandoned on
the foot of the bed, too
hol(e)y to be used
(Is that why
so many leave me?
Am I too empty?
Too full?).

It's the fluttering of a heart, dizzy with
anticipation over basic interactions, the desperate
desire to be with someone who
Hears You and Cares
(You make me feel like
Someone, I hope you know).

It's the crash of despair when you swing your
swollen knees over the side of your bed and
feel the ache for the umpteenth day in the row
(I'm convinced the pain is less around
you, banished by the
flood of serotonin in my brain).

Blue is the color of me,
of you,
of him,
of everything altogether and
nothing at all.

The color of the universe,
the absence of light,
the bright blue shine in a creaky attic,
the fear,
the hope,
the love.
Blue is the liquid life that
sustains us all, the
starshine from eons past.

We are stardust.
We are blue.

Familiar Texture in an Unfamiliar Place

A soft touch
barely grazes the side of my hand,
causing a feeling of
dead shock. I am
entirely see-through,
feeling nothing but a churning in my
gut, sweaty-palmed
hands.
I swallow hard and
just about resist the temptation of touching the
kaleidoscope-patterned throw blanket. How can this remainder of my
little green room be here, on the other side of the
motherfucking country?
No
one knows how anything works anymore.
Perfection is just an illusion, my
queer little heart whispers, usually so
reticent with its words.
Someday we will
take off into the sun, Icarus. I've always been a tad
unusual, but this long-ago texture in a southern Target store
verifies that knowledge.
While I have been sleeping for sixteen and a half
xanthisma-laden
years, this blanket has been
zanily still.

Trash Bag

Multitudes contained within this
stretchy opaque plastic.
What are you hiding?

Imperfections

Someday I will be a
perfect invention.
Buzzing along, maximized efficiency.
Sleek and
shiny,
woosh, woosh, woosh.
Gears whir, I'll keep
going. No fuel needed,
great budget option,
only $39.99 per month if you—
You will turn off the TV.
My presence always irritates, sharp metal needles in your delicate skin.
My face—
long-since frozen in a pleasant smile–
doesn't fall.
Nobody wants a defective model,
and even you can't buff out all the scratches in my veins.

Right now I am an
imperfect human.
Limping along, pain radiating through my limbs.
Dull and
scuffed,
ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP.
Heart thumps, I'll keep
breathing. Too much fuel needed,
all I can do is consume, expensive,
doctor's bills worth their weight in gold if you—
You smile at me.
Your presence always helps, soothing worn blanket on my tender skin.
My face—
long-since pockmarked–
doesn't fall.
You want a defective model,
because—
not in spite—
of the fact that
even you can't buff out all the scratches in my veins.

Biblical Stories in the Modern Era

I don't know if I'm religious,
but the overly cheery storybook Bible I read as a kid
keeps appearing in everything.

The man I pass on the street, chin tucked,
long skirt flowing in the wind,
is Joseph, head lowered to avoid harassment
(those Conservatives hate our rainbow garb because they
wish they could be free like us, free to choose,
us gays have the best fashion sense, even our
dead look beautiful),
moving quickly past the brothers
who would strip him of his colors.

The young girl I see in the hallways,
hands fluttering, shorn hair, ear defenders,
is Queen Vashti, eyeing all men warily
(when one does not comply, they're a
prude, a tease, a bitch, but when they do,
they're a slut, a whore, there's no way to win when
'no' is an affront to ice-brittle masculinity),
trying to keep herself safe.

The tabby cat on the sidewalk,
dog gnashing his teeth and lunging at her angrily,
under attack but still trying to show affection is
David, showing compassion to an unforgiveable
(is there such a thing as safe anymore?
how can there be, with hate everywhere and
violence as the norm?),
not moving to defend herself, no hisses or claws.

The ruby-throated hummingbird I hold,
trembling, unsure of what will happen next,
is Isaac,
lying quiet on the altar
(no one would fault him for fighting back but
that's simply not the way he does things,
he has faith in his father, for better or for worse),
scared but doing his best to stay still, trusting the hand above him
not to fall.

The woman I view on TV,
stepping into a march she may not survive
is Eve,
swallowing fear like bitter fruit to make change
(who said that everything new is bad?
If God didn't want them to leave one day,
why was there an apple tree in the first place?),
unpredictable and courageous, because
someone had to taste the future first.

The teacher I've never spoken to,
gently holding hundreds of souls and
keeping them afloat in uncertain waters
is Noah,
caring for every animal from the ant to the serpent
(who decides which animals are good and bad?
If we don't know for sure, how can we
let any fall off the ark?),
indiscriminate and gentle,
every creature provided a spot in safety.

The college student I view walking alone
toward the abortion clinic, clutching her abdomen
and knowing that she can't justify bringing a kid into this world
is Mary,
understanding that all children deserve the best that can be given
(it's far from selfishness, she would explain
if you only asked, it's recognizing that
you simply cannot do a human life justice),
hunched over with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

The bedframe I lie on,
stained with years of hurt–
hot red blood and cold blue hands–
is the cross,
a symbol of agony and sacrifice
(it's rare that people ask for a martyr outright, but
I lay myself under the priest's knife nonetheless.
What people am I pleasing?)
that is significant only to us.

No one is perfect,
and no one is someone else, but
in that way,
aren't we all?

Aren’t we all
a little bit divine?

Hush

Yes, my heart whispers.
It is 2:38 AM and I am sleeping no longer.
Do not be disruptive,
I tell my heart.
It quiets.

Kennedy Allies Target States to Overturn Vaccine Mandates for Schoolchildren

I feel the sharp prick, and the
aching nothingness spread.
Who knew that dead empty space could hurt so bad?

The cold antiseptic wipe stings
(blue-gloved hands of a thirty-year-old exhausted nurse gently
prepare the expectant sunless shoulder),
and the needle hurts, but the
alternative
(sick, wasting away with a persistent hacking cough)
hurts so much more.

Seraphim Bedspread, Unlatchable Door

I feel
conflicted over
   nothing.
What else is new?
My decision paralysis just
   stops
everything until I can force myself to
breathe again
   (lungs expand everywhichway, not
   just up and down, but I have a
   dragon wrapped around my ribcage and he's
   not too keen on me breathing).

I freak out and
panic over
nothing.
What else is new?
Everything registers as a
threat,
   nowhere is safe no matter how
   open or tight the space around me is
      (claustrophobe immersed in a tiny closet,
      agoraphobe plunked out into the great big world,
      there's no way to win, I'm
      always out of place).

I can't help but
   fumble every
   nothing.
What else is new?
I can't get anything
   right,
      nothing is safe from me no matter how
      simple or intuitive the task is
         (clumsy hands break all that they touch,
         they don't mean to be cruel but
         the grasshopper's legs fall off anyway, they're
         soaked in light green blood).

I don't want to repeat.
I'm sorry.

I repeat myself
   too much
      (too much
      too much
      too much)
and I despise myself for it.
I'm sorry.
I also apologize too much, and
   I'm sorry for that
too.

I perpetuate cycles, it's just
   what we do,
yeah?

How do I break the
   titanium-bone bond without
      s h a t t e r i n g
   my skull?

I can't, and so I just
   press the heels of my grimy hands
      (there are probably deadly germs,
      you're gonna die and
      it's gonna hurt and
keep hurting,
there is no heaven,
this is it)
   into my aching eyes.

I feel, but
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
      (and of course,
      that's a cycle too)
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I cannot cry.

It was a pleasure to burn

Happy birthday, the walls whisper.
I stopped listening when they spoke years ago.
They kept telling me to heal,
and my bloodied hands were enjoying the fire too much.

Lanternlit

Attic meeting by chance,
blue light permeating the room.
Charles, you said your name was,
drenched in icy water.
Edwin, a
forgotten name I hadn't heard in decades.
Grandly I sat, pretending that I wasn't perched upon my own
Hell-stricken remains.
I hoped you wouldn't ask what was in the chest. You were too busy
joking, cheerful despite the
keloids you had hidden on your back, not-so-
long ago hurts from a "proper
mad bastard." You were so
nonchalant, our conversation so
open that I knew you were hiding something.
Perfection doesn't even begin to describe the
queer feeling I felt when I gazed at you. A
red flush seemed to fill my long-dead
skin and I felt warm for
the first time in seventy-three years. Our
limited time together was so
valuable, I saw you fading quickly. I tried to hide my
winces, for I did not wish you to be scared, but your
x-ray gaze seemed to pierce through my carefully crafted facade.
You, Charles Rowland,
zealous friend, are the best person I know.

Ghost Touches from my Past Self

Overgrown Angel

You've been here for so many years.

Eons slowly d e c a y i n g, brittle
   life crunching like the glass of the window you stand behind.

They threw a rock through the
   clear sand
      (coarse and unpredictable into
      smooth and invisible–
      every parent's dream),
   just for kicks, really, no
   purpose or drive to it.
Are you lonely,
   little one?
Did God forget about you already?
Don't worry, He
   abandons us all in the end.

Moss grows on your skin, and
   eats
      eats
         eats
away at it.
It doesn't hurt, but your
   smile has been eroded.

I hope that you're
   okay.
God knows none of the
   rest of us are.

Queer Little Duck

An apple a day, thin red skin getting stuck in my teeth,
bruised gums and yellow fangs biting through the pale
core, filled with seeds that taste like the
dark night I almost drowned in the air.
Effervescent sparkling water
funneled down my throat like it was
God's great nectar, put upon this earth to
heal the sick, the broken, the ruined.
I spluttered, coughing half of it back up,
joking that I'd forgotten that I wasn't a fish, trying and failing to
keep my cool, refusing to
listen to my parents fighting in the kitchen.
My parents always fought back then,
nails unsheathed and teeth bared,
only ceasing when my brother ran into the room in his Spiderman
pajamas and yelling for them to stop. I've always been a
queer little duck,
reticent with information lest the
snakes sense my weakness. I couldn't
trust anyone at all,
unable to breathe properly, defective lungs straining to
veer me away from the cliffside of death.
With my last inhale, I would play a jaunty
xylophone tune on my ribcage and reassure
you that my
zany ass could never be mad at you.

The Attic

Upon Spilling Marinara on My Favorite Sweater

Chest heaving, it's all my fault.

You try and reassure me,
   "It's just a piece of clothing."

And oh, how it is,
   and oh, how it isn't.

It's a cheap piece of fabric fraying at the edges,
   and it's the last reminder I've been provided of times
      before.

Before my chest would heave,
   before the weight of the world rested on my
   not-so-fragile shoulders—
      just because one can do something doesn't
      mean they should or must,
      I didn't ask for this hurt to be thrust upon me—
   before the cold permeated my skull and
   the heat infiltrated my stomach and
   the terrible terrible guilt filled my bile ducts
      (sour, hurt, nothing is the
      same anymore, lamb's wool stained
      with sickly green-white flourescents;
      we all kill our young).

Soft polyester grown ragged with years,
   navy turned light blue turned nearly white—
      the color of mountain snow with just a
      hint of shade—
   now with a brilliant splash of red by the hem
         (who knew garments could
         bleed, I'm a perpetrator now,
         I made something bleed,
         I am the product of spoiled blood,
         I am him);
      I never was good at keeping my napkin in my lap—
         just another little failure in a line of many.

I'm sorry,
   I'm sorry,
      I'm sorry
         (I say it like a chant,
         a mantra, maybe if I
         repeat it enough it'll
         all be okay).

You ask who I'm apologizing to
   (you'd think that after all this time with me you'd
   realize that some questions are better left
   unasked, lest the floodgates open or be
   sealed with concrete).

I don't respond;
   murderers don't get voices.

Nameless Conversation at the Grocery Store

Do you know
   the one who sits on the rickety park bench—
      they really need to fix that up, it's
      such a mess, bolts rusting and wood
      eager to splinter into fragile skin—
   every Thursday at 3pm to feed the birds?

They live near me, and I can't help but
   allow my eyes to follow them as their
   pin-straight hair—
      so black it's almost purple,
      the Crab Nebula if you switch
      the light for dark—
   sways across their cedarwood forehead.

The rock pigeons worship them as a
   god, bowing their oil-spill necks
      (reflecting the base of the flame,
      green and violet and the terrible gray of
      ash, of dead things burned to near-nothing)
   before the great Feeder,
   the revered provider of
   seeds and crumbs from a
   ham sandwich on rye.

Sometimes they sit so still that I'm
   convinced for an instant that they're a
   statue, a representation of calm and quiet solitude
   and generosity.

Anyways, sometimes they'll pack those cookies
   in their sterotypical brown bag
      (who knew those were a thing outside of movies
      and sticky-handed elementary school field trips?)
   and so the packaging reminded me of them.

It's Friday and I am Alone

Like a flash of lightning,
   the haze is upon you once again;
      it spills out of your pores,
      pouring watered-down-ink onto your hands
         (not that they were ever clean to begin with,
         your OCD tells you).

They’re coated in grayscale,
   a desaturated blur that you can just barely make out if you
   peer out the corner of your eyes—
      always bleary now;
      the clarity flew away with the birds,
      South for the winter—
   two limp masses with dulled excuses for rings.

Exhaustion isn’t a strong enough word for it, it’s like
   death and apathy made bitter love over
   the grave of your joy—
      hey, at least someone's getting
      something out of this whole ordeal,
      right? —
   and then took one of those soft-bristled artificial paintbrushes
   and dusted your
   heavy heavy lungs with the
   dull ashes of lust gone sour.

The world isn't a Van-Gogh-blue, it's
   even shades of slow syrupy
   hurt, the occassional sharp corner jutting into your mind—
      a crystal shard of glass sticking out of the
      soft kind caramel,
      bleeding tongue,
      lips sealed with scabs—
   just enough to keep you anxious and waiting for more pain
      (it wouldn't hurt so bad if
      the bright splinters of sunlight didn't
      pierce the fog).

Slate-colored hallway floor,
   the reflection of bright florescents sear my eyes—
     it can't just be us autistics who struggle
     with the neon-bright stabbing white light, right?
     Surely others despise it too—
   and I can't get comfortable with my bent back
      (is good posture even an option anymore?)
   pressed against the cool wall—
      cool like the water that
      refuses to collect in my bone-dry eyes.

It's Friday
   and I am alone.

Phone Call

I’m not afraid anymore.
Do you hear me?
I am not afraid.

I was, once.
I used to quiver against the wall,
   the perfect image of archetypal terror,
   sweat beading
      like pearls on the nacre of my
      too-wan forehead.
You noticed.
Don’t say you didn’t,
   you know you noticed.

Yeah. I figured.

I still love you.
Always and forever,
   no matter how much I shake my fist at the unforgiving sky—
      not literally, of course, I've always been far too
      self-conscious for such
      wanton displays of dramatic emotion, like a
      toddler kicking their feet and screaming at Kroger—
   and curse it for striking me down with what we call love.
   it doesn't matter what I do.

But I just wanted to call and tell you that
   I’m not afraid anymore.
And I'm still in love with you.

Bittersweet Survival

"Someone will remember us
I say
even in another time"
-Sappho, Fragment 147

I close the letter without a kiss—
   one could never convey the true
   depth of beauty and agony I feel in this moment—
   but instead with wax:
      red
      dripping, like
      something from the nightmare I had last night.

The end times are nigh,
   and there’s not much left to lose.
Which is to say,
   it’s an average week in America.
I don’t remember the last time it
   hasn’t been Doomsday.
We’ve been on the
   precipice,
   this close to teetering over the cliffside and
   splatting on the ground far beneath us
      (who knew halos could be so red,
      the crimson spreads like an infection,
      and we are dying).

I’m worried about my friends,
   and nothing seems real.
Which is to say,
   it’s an average life of an LGBTQ+ teen.
I don’t remember the last time I heard of
   a perfectly happy queer.
We’ve been on the
   precipice,
   this close to getting assaulted or killed at all times and
   being buried under the wrong name, alone
      (who knew graves could be so cold,
      the ones we love are solitary too,
      and we are dead).

But they will remember us.
They will remember our
   wine-stopping beauty
   that was never meant to survive
      (we were never meant to survive
      but the first brick was thrown anyway).

Fifty years down the line,
   a kid will flip open their textbook and
   read in red-smeared letters that we
   lived.

Letter to My Mother

Mama, I think my head is haunted.
The floorboards of my mind creak in the night,
   and the shutters flap open and closed.
Bulbs flicker like candlelight,
   I’m a stranger in my own home.

Mama, I think my heart is ruined.
It’s taken so many bruises and bumps,
   and it’s never once healed quite right.
The scars shine slightly, tissue raised in clumps,
   and disease has settled here, terrible blight.

Mama, I think my body is broken.
It’s always too flat and too round,
   and I don’t know how to mold it to fit me.
I ball my fists tight and against my insides, I pound,
   and from this shattered mess, I can never flee.

Mama, I think I’m just plain wrong.
I feel like a screwup no matter what I do,
   and I don’t know how to justify what I take.
I’m convinced that I can’t ever do right by you,
   and a normal life, I can’t even fake.

Mama, I’m scared.
I am not my own,
   please come and take me home.

Run, ghosts. Love, ghosts.

You Are a Runner and I Am My Father's Son mixed with Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts for Charles, Shine a Light mixed with Grounds for Divorce for Edwin, all by Wolf Parade (lyric mashup)

Scream of the Crow

i. Before
Isn’t it funny how
   imprisonment can seem like complacency?
I can hardly move a muscle, lest the
   harsh cold iron burn
   like the core of the star it came from.

I see them come in:
Two boys, close together, intentional brushes.
The fighter’s eyes trail the runner’s shoulders
   as his jacket is shrugged off.

They’re here to take the girl home.
The witch’ll be furious
   but I don’t care.

I cry out for help, but
   the fighter thinks that I’m
   mocking him.
I know his type, always
   jumping to conclusions
   like lightning
   to a tall tree.

Not everything that is loud is bad,
I want to say.
Take me with you.
But they can’t hear me.

She returns and—
   ah, there it is.
That is what mocking sounds like,
I tell the quick-tempered one.

A fight ensues.
I hope they make it out
   oh, I truly do, but
   the metal is already embedded in my skin, smoke rising and
   my neck won’t reach any further between the bars.

I shout for them to run and
   she tells me to shut up.

She has new people to turn her ire upon now and
   despite everything, I can’t help but feel
   relieved.
I am safe for now.

ii. During
Isn’t it funny how
   becoming can feel so much like torture?
Just as a caterpillar liquifies in its cocoon,
   turning to accursed mush before healing anew,
I am in agony once more.
I try to muffle my shouts—
   she doesn’t like it when I’m loud,
   not one bit,
   says my harsh cries give her headaches—
   but the pain is too much to bear silently.
I beg her with my eyes and my croaking voice to just end it,
   whether with the completion of the ritual
   or my death.

She fixes her irritation by ripping out my vocal cords,
   and I am left gasping silently for the remainder until—

I emerge.
I am here.
I am the most alive that I have ever been.
My lips—
   oh, what a wonder,
   to have such a malleable mouth,
   no more hard keratin—
curl into my best imitation of a grin.

The world is different,
   duller.
The feathers on the floor
   have faded to a flat black,
   no longer the blues and purples I’m used to.

She coos over me,
   satisfied for the time being.
She is far from a mother,
   but she’s the closest thing I have.

If I can make her proud, I will.
I just need the pain to stop.
Maybe if I can make her happy,
   she’ll stop.

iii. After
Isn’t it funny how
   one could make another human and then punish them for daring to be one?
Her blood-splattered face is still fresh in my mind,
   but I think it’s been warped—
   Did you know you can only remember something perfectly once?
   Your brain takes it and mangles it a
      little more each time
      like a bird-turned-boy-turned-bird—
   because I refuse to believe that much malice was
   caked into the crow’s feet formed with that
   horrible squinty-eyed tsk tsk grin.

She loves me.
She has to.
She created me and
   if you put in all that effort to make something,
   surely you must appreciate it.

I return to the house.
I shut myself back in the cage.
Because where else would I go?

The butcher’s shop,
   with the animal innards and the
   quartet of betrayed hateful faces?

The warehouse,
   with the only other magical being I know
   who hates my guts and sees me as competition?
      (As if either of us could ever compete
      I see the way the runner looks at his guard dog when
      the latter’s head is turned)

The iron burns again.
A reminder that I am now,
   once again,
   unnatural.

iv. Epilogue
Isn’t it funny how
   she didn’t close the door after I slunk back in?
Trusting me at last, or simply
   too drunk on her newfound ectoplasm power.

I flutter out,
   far from free, but I must do
   something.
I can’t just sit here,
   the runner’s screams in my ears.

God, if you’re there,
   just let him flicker out, it’s the
   kind thing to do.

Soft hiss from the fighter.
He’s desperate,
     in more agony from his friend’s—
      not friend, that’s for sure, something
      more,
      his soul, perhaps—
   pain than from the
   burning circle around his throat.
How derogatorily apt,
   a dog collar for the guard dog.
He spits words like fire,
   an accusation:
When I get out of this thing, Crow,
   you’re gonna find you backed the wrong side.

I cry out, conflicted.
The pain I know is safer
   than that which I don’t but
I slide him his bag anyways,
   praying that she won’t tear me apart again
   when she discovers my betrayal.

The next time the other boy screams,
   I do too.

Religion

I believe in the fluttering of hummingbird wings,
and sweat-wicking cool breezes,
and the bond shared laughter brings,
and rocky road ice cream,
and the excitement of the first snow,
and the tender ache of hard-worked muscles,
and the joy of getting a this-reminded-me-of-you text,
and the ecstacy of a pet upon the return from the store,
and the loud defiant bellow of thunder.
I believe in things that scream
I AM HERE.
I AM HERE.
I AM HERE.

Tarnished

I do not think there is such a thing as absolution
For if there was I would've long since made myself Pure

Unforgiving Sky

Air cushion catches falling stranger
I don't believe in coincidences
I have to believe they were never in any danger
Too high is the rate of incidence

My butterflies all flew away
I don't know if they'll return
The sky is far too dreary and gray
And my stomach's beginning to churn

Nothing feels the same as it used to
It's both a blessing and a curse
I think I bit off more than I can chew and
Everything's just getting worse

I don't know how to breathe in this dark room
I need someone to open the freaking blinds
And I know it's stupid, that I'm halfway in a tomb
But I can't get ahold of my spiraling mind

Typewriter

Clack clack DING throughout home
The thunderous noise is far from apologetic
It's the confidence I lack

Ranges away from Home

Miles from familiarity,
I'm unsure what to do.
The freedom of anonymity is a
beautiful thing,
a privilege rarely found.
No one knows us here,
you amorphous being.
I am what you want,
and what you don't.
Calves burn, breath comes quick and sharp.
I've never been a good climber.
Cool high-altitude breeze wicks away the
beads of sweat on my forehead
I love exploring the
ranges away from home.

Snaggleteeth and Other Lovely Things

Beauty is overrated
I only think it
I don't say it because
I know it matters to you

Your crooked teeth are hidden when you smile
Because some jerk teased you in second grade
Your wild everywhere orange hair
Can never be tamed
Your watery brown eyes
Protrude slightly from your skull

I will never tell you any of this
Because even though these are the very reasons why I love you
I know you would take them as snubs

To the Trees on the Walls of my Old Preschool

I suppose I write too much about when I was
Younger, but I miss the innocence of the
Playroom walls, covered in painted flora and fauna and the
Rickety wooden castle my preschool had

I used to lay down on the scratchy carpet floor and pretend I was older
Able to be on my own and have some semblance of independence
But aging comes with a curse
The curse of knowing
I wish I could go back to that land of joyful ignorance

Are you still there,
You great towering creatures?
Or did they wash you over with beige or pale white
Like they did when they cut down your real brethren to create
The very structure upon which you've been placed

I miss you, okay?
I miss the place you created for me
I hope you are well

Downcast Eyes, or, Naïve Desires

Someday I will be free from the
Chains of my youth
But that day isn't today

Snow-Coated Chainlink Fence, or, Different Kinds of Hurt

Protection from the sharp metal is
Its own kind of wound
Fewer cuts but the slower
More insidious frostbite will set in
You see safety
I see a more subtle agony
Maybe this time you grip it tight
It'll turn out okay

Nursing and Other Difficult Choices

Two years now since I've made the decision that will
Forever alter my path

Endless forms
Raised voices
Buzzing fluorescent lights
The sharp smell of antiseptic

I've never been fond of the hospital
Too autistic and anxious to appreciate it as a patient
But those six days especially
Were absolute hell
I remember most people
The fellow patients
The good professionals
The terrible ones
The abysmal psychiatrist

Soft words and knowing looks
Empathy without saccharine smiles
Harsh verbal blows and screaming matches
False simpering sweetness
All in equal parts

They're all in my head
But most of all,
I remember the extra pudding cups
The choice over what to watch each night
The stories told to us of the world beyond

The kindness I experienced far outweighs the purple scars
And so it has been two years since I decided that I would be
A Good one
I will seize this wild and precious life
And bestow unto others
That which saved my life

Unknows and Other Christmas Conundrums

I've never liked mysteries, I find their allure
Bland and deceiving
I look at the neatly-wrapped boxes under the tree as
Landmines waiting to explode upon touch
If I don't react in the perfect way their red faces will scrunch like the
Wrapping paper I toss in the corner

December Wishes

Youth melts like snowflakes on the tongue
Peals of laughter ring into the chilled air
Joy spreads like the cold that every kid gets twice a year
I wish I could be back there
Innocence shines bright like the tundra
And I am just inside

White on white on lonely

Pale mountain on paler sky
He stands alone
No one else in sight

compassion, or the lack thereof

a bit over two years now
since i was There
my family and i refer to it in capitals
the Hospital
the City where it was

a bit over two years now
since i snaked the sheet around my neck
and around the slats of the bed frame
i panicked when my pulse throbbed with pain
i slipped out and tried to tell one of the nurses

a bit over two years now
since i was yelled at by two people at the same time
for having the audacity to try and escape however i could
since i was woken up by my psychiatrist in my face hurling accusations
i was trying, i was, i was
but she didn't believe me
my discharge date was unchanged

i don't know if it did more harm than good
it kept me alive but
added plenty of scars to my already damaged body and mind
i don't trust anymore
i can't

heartbreak sommelier

this one has been aging since your birth
slow and rich
there were two makers involved
but they each took half the barrel
so you may only have a few sips

this one was only for a month or so
but oh, what a month it was
it had changed and grown so much in just that time
it’s quite intense but
doesn’t linger on the tongue

this one has incubated for a year now
far up on the shelf
we’ve brought it in and out of various barrels
we can’t quite bear to sell it
i’m afraid this is for another day,
but it pairs excellently with long chats with friends

oh, this one?
these are just grapes,
my dear
hundreds of thousands of grapes
they haven't yet been crushed
but they will be
sooner or later

each of these offer their own unique benefits
why, you must buy something
the grapes?
good choice

resilience

the night air chills my skin
as the harsh breeze cuts at my watery eyes
yet i persist
i will brace myself against the abrasive gusts of loneliness
and smile at the freezing agony
i am alive

8:21pm, wordku

moon bright tonight, falls on
leaves dappled with rain, salt-less sky tears
i will always be alone

kneeling to your glory

oh, you great american leader
what will you do once
you've eradicated every ounce of our
tainted blood from the planet?

you wise, proud, godly man
jesus, the friend of beggars,
and sex workers,
and gay people,
the brown jewish man,
he would be in such awe of you.

you noble and incorrigible icon
you care so much about the youth
staying safe from their own bodies
(protect the children!)
that you rape young girls
so that the gay pedophiles won't
you're a true hero

the most discerning of men
you always know when a spray tan is too much
or when your close friends
are committing genocides
or sex abuse, pyramid-scheme style

i bow down to you, my wonderful leader.

i feel the sharp bristles of the carpet
dig into my bare knees
and i burn my tylenol and breast tape
for you have shown me the light

you forgot to say goodbye

don't you know it's
only polite to bid one farewell
before an eternal departure?
you didn't warn me
god, why didn't you warn me?
now every time i love someone i'm just
waiting for them to leave.

i think i'll just go first.
i won't say goodbye.
i will join the 58-98%
and simply leave you waiting forever
three dots on your screen
invisible ink on notebook paper
the words won't fall from my lips
like stones into a lake;
they won't even be thought into existence

you forgot to say goodbye
i'll remember
but i won't say it either

¿ya está terminado?

oh fantasma inquieto
continua a ir de cosa a cosa
nada te completa

is it over yet?

o you restless soul
keep flitting from thing to thing
nothing will fill you

reasons why i may be dead

1. i have very little real-world impact and few connections
2. i struggle to retain memories, every moment is a ghost of itself
3. i cannot imagine continuing for years to come
4. i have come very close to death before— perhaps i didn't escape as unscathed as i thought at the time
5. dead boy detectives is simply Too Good to not be a hallucination
6. sometimes i imagine talking to fictional characters and dead people and carry on full imaginary conversations (i am well aware they are not real, and i don't hallucinate the actual voices, more just storytelling in my brain, obviously)
7. i find it hard to believe in religion but also can't quite shake the idea of there being Something
8. it's so cold here
9. can you hear me?
10. are you there?

new oc design idea

look at your reflection in the bathroom mirror with just enough light to barely eke out your own features. it is midnight, and when you were 11 you were so scared of bloody mary that you refused to fully shut the bathroom door. you are alone. watch as your features slowly distort into something unrecognizable. there are no monsters here, only you. but your nose is widening and your eyes aren't meeting the glass and your mouth is grinning even as you feel your lips pull back to bare your teeth at this creature in front of you. you are not safe. you never have been. this is who you really are, revealed through your mind "playing tricks on you". you are alone.

conversation with the bird circling outside my spanish class

i. prologue (upon the sighting)
soft skies
soft voices
soft sweater
sharp emotions
stare out the window to dull it all
i don’t want to catch their eyes
far away a shape circles around
and around
and around.
corvid performing a dance
an art of the body
an art of purposelessness.
my interest piqued, i beckon it closer
(come meet me, icarus
the ocean whispers)

ii. conversation (upon the approach)
where are you going?
nowhere in particular.
that sounds rather lovely.
what about you?
me?
yes, you. where is your destination?
somewhere, i suppose. always somewhere.
does it not get tiring?
of course. but i know no other path. i’m not even entirely sure where i’m going.
away.
you think?
when the white-hot flash was spat from the greedy mouth of the metal tube your fellow bare-fleshed creature carried, i went away. until i felt safe.
are you safe now?
that depends on what you do next.
...i see.
...
do you feel...free?
naturally. i do not understand the notion of movement with purpose always. how do you enjoy this moment if you’re hurrying along to the next?
i— where are you going?
you know where.

iii. decision (upon the departure)
i want to follow this creature into that
magical Nowhere in Particular
but in order to fly i must first
unburden my wings of you.
so i will set you down on the cluttered carpet floor as
gently as i can—
for i will never not love you,
not in a million years, but
i cannot love you like this any longer.
not in this way that you neither want nor need
(embarrassing as it is to admit you’ve
probably never wanted this,
no matter how much i have)
i will soar into the damp gray sky,
a much-loved once-white plush rabbit
long since dulled by hundreds of washes
i will be weighed down only by the
thick drops of clear salt-less tears
of the stuffed animal sky.

always the poet, never the muse (from one friend to another)

cookies and stickers handed over like
peace offerings for our friendship
(i hope she knows that i
will always enjoy her company
without the bribes;
i have not yet been irritated with her)

care shown in every little
aspect, she gets bored of her own questions,
(how are you feeling today as a
cut and wash of jeans?)
always changing,
fluid, unique
never banal

creator writing whole
worlds into existence
deepest crashing waves of sorrow for
a boy i've never met
(and now never will
how could the universe do such a thing?)
tide of her words pull me under one second,
raise me up the next

little loving gestures
she takes notes on fun facts
(i'm going into nursing
her screen says
she cannot forget)
always so ready to hear my little rants
endures them with enthusiasm

and i know she could scrawl an
infinitely more skilled and
eloquent piece with
hardly a thought but
i want her to feel valued
so here you are,
my dear friend,
my muse.
tuesday's child is full of you
and so is my mind.

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 glow 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.

>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.

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)

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.

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 the park at dusk
stars shining through our eyes?

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

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?

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.

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 petrichor—
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.