I dream of you, love of my life, most in the fall
When rain falls easy on red brick
And a crisp breeze flirts with the nape of my neck.
You have seen me depart far too soon
For far too long,
But you are still the breath that soothes
The months-long cramp in my lungs,
And my smile finds you.
In spite of that old grief in the harsh lights,
You still hold me safe and sure and real.
So I ride six hours north,
Back to you, back home
To find you once more.
i don’t think people understand that people can ‘love’ you and not actually love you
like my grandmother ‘loved’ me, but she also was always trying to change me. she tried to take me away from my (catholic bisexual) mother. she made me wear dresses when i was there. she always tried to get me to go to church and was always asking me if i was dating a boy yet
i spent years feeling guilty that i wasn’t what she wanted me to be until my mom told me one day “she never bothered to know the real you”
and it’s true. any time i tried to show her something about myself, even cook for her, it would be dismissed, and a replacement would be offered. even northern food was somehow a sin.
she loved me what she thought i should be, she never loved me.
bc people who love you, they love you for all the stuff that makes you you. they never consider that it makes you inconvenient.
“It was true: the other mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money, or a dragon loves its gold.“
Loving someone like a prized possession is a very different thing from loving someone like a person you care about.
a concept: me, in my cottage, in front of the wood stove, sipping tea. looking outside, my bees are pollinating my expansive garden. my goats and chickens and cows are happy and safe. i feel content with my choices and my future. i unconditionally and recklessly love myself. the local children believe i am a witch.
WE’VE DONE IT WE’VE FINALLY GONE FULL EOWYN and I approve
YES.
also where can find this music?? Off to search the internet!!
This is why I’m glad you are family –heard the music and went “I WANT TO DANCE TO THIS”
I’ve officially been inspired by a period commercial
What sold me was the inclusion of the ballerina.
I mean the rest of it also awesome, sure. But. The acknowledgement of the shit they go through to look that beautiful and graceful and the inclusion of a trad-femme activity, I’m sold.
FUCK. YES.
The music is “Native Puppy Love” by A Tribe Called Red (Canadian Indigenous electronic music artists).
My love, take these walls, these wars.
Dull my blades. I am tired of the hunt.
I’ve laid my only words at your feet. Open for me.
I want to know, be known. Want and be wanted.
Jeanann Verlee, from “Your Mouth Is a Church, I Forgot How to Pray,” Nailed (July 21, 2014)
Since you mention it, I think I will start that race war.
I could’ve swung either way? But now I’m definitely spending the next 4 years converting your daughters to lesbianism; I’m gonna eat all your guns. Swallow them lock stock and barrel and spit bullet casings onto the dinner table;
I’ll give birth to an army of mixed-race babies. With fathers from every continent and genders to outnumber the stars, my legion of hapa babies will be intersectional as fuck and your swastikas will not be enough to save you,
because real talk, you didn’t stop the future from coming. You just delayed our coronation. We have the same deviant haircuts we had yesterday; we are still getting gay-married like nobody’s business because it’s still nobody’s business; there’s a Muslim kid in Kansas who has already written the schematic for the robot that will steal your job in manufacturing, and that robot? Will also be gay, so get used to it:
we didn’t manifest the mountain by speaking its name, the buildings here are not on your side just because you make them spray-painted accomplices. These walls do not have genders and they all think you suck. Even the earth found common ground with us in the way you bootstrap across us both,
oh yeah: there will be signs, and rainbow-colored drum circles, and folks arguing ideology until even I want to punch them but I won’t, because they’re my family, in that blood-of-the-covenant sense. If you’ve never loved someone like that you cannot outwaltz us, we have all the good dancers anyway.
I’ll confess I don’t know if I’m alive right now; I haven’t heard my heart beat in days, I keep holding my breath for the moment the plane goes down and I have to save enough oxygen to get my friends through. But I finally found the argument against suicide and it’s us. We’re the effigies that haunt America’s nights harder the longer they spend burning us, we are scaring the shit out of people by spreading, by refusing to die: what are we but a fire? We know everything we do is so the kids after us will be able to follow something towards safety; what can I call us but lighthouse,
of course I’m terrified. Of course I’m a shroud. And of course it’s not fair but rest assured, anxious America, you brought your fists to a glitter fight. This is a taco truck rally and all you have is cole slaw. You cannot deport our minds; we won’t hold funerals for our potential. We have always been what makes America great.
As small as the world 