The Days I Know I’m Sad
What I wouldn’t give to clear the cobwebs
for what good has
being
Aware
of the
spider’s
string
been to the fly held fast in its grip?
Just here to say, at 3 am, happy fucjibc pride, y’all.
The way I do not remember posting this and just came to screenshot something else oh my GOD
Just here to say, at 3 am, happy fucjibc pride, y’all.
To 26, To 27
To my 26th year. You were stolen from me. I turned 26 inside the house during the onset of a pandemic and I’m turning 27 in the very same house in the middle of year two of a pandemic.
Nevertheless, I survived. I cried. I maybe smoked too much. I worked just as hard as I always have and truly, haven’t quite gotten what I deserve. I published a book I’m not quite proud of. But I am not the ways people and places exploit my kindness and hard work.
I release.
I recommit to my continued wellness.
I was sicker, sadder, and angrier than I’ve ever been before. The world flipped upside down. I’m being honest because I owe that to the self who will read this one day and hold this me in her heart as she continues to live, and dream, and love, and heal.
To 26, you broke my heart but it wasn’t your fault.
To 27…I no longer know what to ask for. Perhaps the point is to stop asking my years for things in the first place and simply live in my present.
One thing is for sure, I’m at least going to become the most important person in my life.
Happy 27th Birthday, me — you’re getting old, kid.
Aye aye aye back just to say that it’s okay to curse people out when they hurt you on purpose, baby.
A fun update: came out to my brother Jupiter today. He loves me still.
It’s Mars, I’m on TikTok, and I’m back with my Falcon and the Winter Soldier take.
Part of the way racism affects the media that gets created is that media featuring Black characters regularly has to cater to non-Black audiences by explaining the basics of racism and anti-Blackness, wasting storytelling time and boring Black fans.
I have truly never been told I am beautiful
or lovely
without being told just how I provide value.
They partake of my heart,
water their fields with my blood and tears.
Build places of safety from my bones.
Create homes within all I provide.
And I, longing to be loved, aching for beauty,
Allow.
SHE/HER/HERS
Some days I fantasize about peeling away my womanhood. I think about a delicate hold on the flesh that others deemed ‘She’. I dream of a firm tug, then euphoric release.
Strip lashes, brassieres, and misogynoir left behind on a bathroom floor.
The easy and graceful fall of Her and the emergence some Other Thing within me that has remained elusive, standoffish even as I beckon it forward to name it.
Some days, I indulge and delight in the Unknown and Unable to Be Known nestled deep in my being.
But only some days.
My pronouns are…She/Her/Hers.
Also, check in time. I’m doing really well, y’all. I got my first vaccine shot and I’m writing so many fun videos for work and writing so much more poetry too. 💛
It’s been a while since you’ve heard my voice, Tumblr. Hoping this made you smile ✨
Hero/Villain
I am neither hero nor villain. I am neither flaw, nor perfection. The hero I make myself out to be when I run from the ways I’ve hurt people, has come to lay herself at the sacrificial altar. She offers obsession, resentment, and judgement to the fire of the funeral pyre.
The irredeemable villain I thought I was when I split my pain into pieces and gifted them to the unsuspecting, is performing the eulogy. A mournful reminder that we are yet human, that we hurt and are hurt. That I am whole no matter what fragments, worn from my battles, may have splintered and drawn blood from those around me. That though no apologies can be offered, the edges of me can be sculpted and sanded into better.
And when the sermon is finished, the villain offers herself to the fire of atonement as well.
Healing burns through flesh left tender by emotion. By weight.
From the death of dichotomy, comes release.
I am the latchkey
I am a bandaid on the crack of a sidewalk
I am the stutter in an improv show
I am the uncertainty of I…Um…uh…
I am the “salt to taste” instructions on a boxed meal you’ve already thrown away
I am the unknown and the unlikely
I am a currently nameless writer born of the “we are sorry to inform you” generation
I am frustration, I am entitlement
I am the hard earned trophies gathering dust in my fathers office
I am the lost, the angry
I am a “no matter what” longing to be “look ma, I made it”
I am a “too much”
Being told “not enough”
When I long to be simply “I”
