saint-jonah-jude
American
Saint Jonah Jude is a twenty year old nervous system of gender complexities and traumatic diction, scraping the heavens for the ability to write about any of it. Spawned from the tiny pool of Lompoc, CA and crawling xir way up to the big city, xe spends most of xir time attempting to make a better life for beings like xirself by writing, discussing, and researching many queer and neurodivergent topics all while downing several burgers in one sitting. That brings xir interest pool to a meager contribution of social justice and fast food, and as every good being's interest pool must include, cats. Many themes bounce around in xir work but quite often the most prevalent are the concept of 'other,' mental and social isolation, and fashion/appearance as identity. Xe has found most people just chalk it up to 'weird and ambiguous writing, what the heck does this even mean?'
Your nest in my heart
Is made of teal strands and meds.
We’re newborn fathers.
Two words in Spanish:
Mi madre. And with you, our
Wholesome home begins.
Goldilocks drops in,
Fills us with too much porridge.
West coast warms his core.
Fold away your wings.
We eagerly await your
Flight into our arms.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
They say the apple doesn’t fall from the tree,
And that is why my center is rotted with worms
Instead of being baked into a humble pie.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
We shame roses
For their thorns
Despite our knowledge
That their purpose
Is to protect blossoms
From uncaring hands.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
You were in the shower when the phone call came.
Your breakfast was in the toilet by the time it rang again.
You don’t answer. For days, weeks, and then it is
The three month mark, and she isn’t back, and you aren’t awake.
When you leave the house, and pick up the phone,
Someone says “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You say, “I’m sorry it wasn’t me.”
The words don’t come out right. The words don’t come out at all.
Every time you see a hummingbird,
You wonder if reincarnation is real,
And if she’d feel better as a bird, or a bug,
Rather than a bedridden set of destroyed lungs.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
Look, all I’m saying is
I’m the cracks in the sidewalk
That they warn you not to step on
Or you’ll cause chain reactions that
Cause you to question whether or not
Blood is thicker than water. Because maybe,
You want her dead. Not in the long run
But in an instant where she drags you
Across the room by your hair, and
You break the ******* mirror
Because it shows you who
You’re not. All I’m saying
Is stand up and seep up the
Remnants of how much your daddy
Loved you, once upon a time, crumble
His cards and flowers made of prison cigarette
Packs and he said “I always thought of you,”
Meaning you’re a jailbird tattoo artist’s
Well-meaning card that he swapped
Cafeteria lunch cards for. And yes,
You were hurt, but the teacher
Tells you hold your tongue
And your bladder, even
Your first ever girlfriend says
That it’s not as bad as you make it,
When you realize you can’t love her,
You can’t love anyone you run so fast
Your legs squeak, you never want to run
Back to a house where they killed your dog
And your dreams and strung them up like laundry
On hot days. Eventually someone uses the “A”
Word, the “V” word, “victim” of “abuse” and it
Only hurts because deep in your swollen,
****** up core you know that it is true.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
You act like you
Expect a cue:
Like we’re supporting actors
And your existence relies on mine
Or even worse MY existence relies on YOURS,
But I don’t need players who can’t hold their weight on a stage
With more than two spotlights.
You act like you need clues
When it’s up to you to get a ******* clue,
When it isn’t pink or blue you’re stuttering between
Green and yellow and I want to ***** all those colors that make you
“Uncomfortable” or “worried” for a future that I doubt you belong in,
Because let’s be real: It wasn’t a *******
Baby bib color that made me dread
My genitalia.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
#1
I’m faltering at the edge of a shaky trigger finger.
When I die, please burn me to a crisp
(If I haven’t done so already, and if my brain is still intact)
And bury the remnants of a sad little boy
Under every house that ever hurt my fingers
With its splinters and creaky floors;
Its fathers with big boots, and scratchy stubble.
#2
Now I am stardust, and you are foam.
On the other side, you kiss me,
Pretend it would have meant
Something, sometime.
#3
P.S. I am never owning up to
Owing you up to a hundred bucks
Because you didn’t believe in me hard enough
And I lost my wings. My only regret in dying is not
Yelling **** you” loud enough to melt your doubts off.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
1.
I flew into LA
At sunrise:
Clipped wings,
Pockets of nickels.
2.
I could have died
With my heart exposed
And lips silent
(It would have been easier).
3.
My repressed homosexual tendencies
Got me into your veins.
I can’t taste coffee any more,
Even if I drink it off your smile.
4.
Yes, my mind did go there.
My stomach knots when
I realize I want your hands
Hovering in the darkness.
5.
He doesn’t watch me at night
When your name is fleeting
And my heart throbs too fast.
This could have been ours.
6.
I don’t think women
Look as good in blue, with
LAPD adorning their heaving *******
The gunshot still rings in my eyes.
7.
I wish it were zombies.
Let’s start over from here,
And you can wade my shallow puddle
To begin our end over again.
8.
They’re like us, but older
And younger, and blonder, and
More human than I could ever
Pretend to be.
9.
Goodnight.
It is empty in the abyss
That is the absence of
Your smile.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
No one wrote a book
On how to queer up the world.
I’ve been waiting for Volume One
On how to hate your body effectively,
Because all of the brats who spit in my
Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
When I say “it doesn’t fit.
It never fits. Will I ever fit?”
Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t
Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting
Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears,
And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections.
They opened up their doors to us, those who fit
Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two
Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick
The right door?) but they promptly
Threw us out when we tried. And tried again.
And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like
Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door
That says “real suffering.”
Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in
So many words as symptoms for a
Common cold.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
Soak up your tears
With glitter glue
And craft yourself together
A brand new, well-patched heart.
Use lots of layers, so
The sword of society
Cannot pierce your
Mismatched organs.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC