On the eve of this day we sat down on the floor and sang many songs with the friends we made along the way, the friends we fought to keep and foster and this thing together we’re negotiating like a precious new life. I want you to know desperately that every word, every gesture I utter in this place is love. It is hope that carries me toward this unknown future even though sometimes I walk backwards to avoid letting fear propel me forward. I have no choice in whether I exist, here and now, but since I have to, I am glad I can choose to face this moment with you. Beautiful friends make a happy tomorrow and the day after we will breathe relief into each other’s mouths and keep calling them back and making silly hearts with our fingers. Everything I put into these instants is love, and since worry will not stop until everything disappears, I choose to choose you, over and over again. You are the light, and the home, and the hope. And when you don’t want to be, I will be those things so you can catch your breath. It doesn’t matter at all, but it is love, anyway.
This poem was written during NaNoWriMo, because one of the challenges I’m currently failing at this year is to write one poem a day. As I said, I am not being quite successful with that or the total word count, but I am pretty enthusiastic about my story this year, and I have already written more than I did the past two years. 🙂
I knitted a sweater
Warm, soft. Pink and blue
With yellow flowers on the front
And matching earrings.
I ordered chunky shoes online
And hemmed a skirt some inches shorter.
It took a while, but I embroidered
Hearts into leg warmers.
I swallowed back harsh words,
I drafted heartfelt apologies.
I bit on her lower lip until it bled
And picked at her rainbow-painted nails.
I brushed her hair,
Cut her hair,
Brushed it again,
And bleached it on a whim.
I loved her and loved her and loved her
Until she stopped believing me.
Out of expectations and grief,
Out of despair and angry tears,
I made a girl.
Small as a mouse,
Bigger than the universe.
Arms always open.
I made a girl
Pretty like a blade,
Cutting like a rose.
I made a girl
Then I took it all back.
I’m back baybee! After months of note-taking, multiple rows of editing and research, let me introduce my brand new baby : Let me get this off my chest : an anxious person’s guide to boobotomy
This 32-page A5 zine is an account of my personal experience going through top surgery and recovery, as well as all the advice I could think to pack into it. It’s probably the hardest I’ve worked on a non-fiction personal project and I’m really happy with how it turned out (and very happy I’m finally done with it).
You can get the PDF for free directly from Ko-fi, or you can email me about it.
Sometimes I feel so full of some sort of emotion that I feel kinda dizzy with it, and the outside world gets blurry. Yes I meant to put a comma there. Anyway here’s Wonderwall.
I was dizzy for a while.
The world distorted as I went about
my daily chores.
Empty, it seemed,
of cares I should have paid to my surroundings.
I was in love with the pendulum swing,
the lean of the axis,
stumble of my step.
I was late,
alive back then.
The void embraced me in its whirlwind dance.
There was no answer to be found.
No lesson to be gleaned.
Just my fragile head flirting
with the hard pavement.
A thrilling joy
It’s been 84 years, but yeah, I do still write poetry sometimes. It’s the beginning of NaNoWriMo once again, we’ll see what happens this year. I’m trying not to put any pressure on myself and enjoy it!today I talk to the dead. I pry my eyes open inward and remember the soil they went back to. I breathe in the prickly blue sky, weep with willows, play hide and seek with a meandering sun. I know the end will come, but not today. I clench my fists. I refuse to cry. they loved me and I love them, for all they’ve given me, for all they’ve taken from me. today I tell the dead about the ones who remain and how we don’t pray exactly, but sometimes I’ll leave my window open for a bit too long, till the clouds invite themselves in. I yell at them because their beauty offends me. the air in my lungs stings like your hand on mine decades ago. today I talk to the dead and as long as I do, they live.