I began

as an accident,  but what I know is no accident.

I sprouted up

in rural America as a white girl-child so what I learned was learned through white girl-child eyes.

I grew to become

a liberal white queer woman so what I perceive is through liberal white queer woman’s eyes.

I thrive

as a creator, a dreamer, an artist, so what I experience is experienced as a creator, a dreamer, an artist.

Who are you to say what I merit?

Who are you?

You began.


You sprouted up.


You grew to become.


[I hope] You thrive.


Who am I to say what you deserve?

Who am I to say?
I am me to say.

I am not to say
for you.

You are not to say
for me.

For you are to say
for you.

and I

for me.

And that,
dear friends

should be no privilege.

Cursor. Stare vacantly back at me.  A pair of rough hands scrape against cheeks.  My own.  
A faint yet familiar soreness in the back of the throat.  
Christmas lights procure rings of color on the walls and make still for an instant
mounting apprehension.

Count the days.

Recount.

Plan each day, hour by hour. Compelled to use them to their fullest potential.
Productivity.
Type without fear. Without concern for that looming pair of eyes to examine this.

A verbalization of [my own dark thoughts] “It’s not good enough.” “ It’s garbage."

Jagged hands. Jagged hands to delicate hairs on the back of the neck.  Above ear and pushed from forehead.  Soreness in throat keeps me [grounded].  
Soreness in heart sends me to dream.  
Soft groan escapes a pair of lips as a pair of eyes find a likeness captured in pixels.  
Close it shut put it down look away deep breath in.

Distract.

Distract with learning.
The inextinguishable desire to know, to see, to understand [this]
existence.

Will one day I allow for eyes not my own to bear witness to this love poem?
This love poem to life, both in a particular and universal sense.

With timid hands and trembling insides I surrender

*my words.