When she was the one who loved me, she asked:

"How can you be some calm?"

Less of a question,
more of an accusation,
as all arguments possess.

I found it interesting.

I'm sure at the time
my answer was melancholy
Sad, even.

In truth, I couldn't answer.
Not properly.
Not in the moment.

The reason is simple.

I think there is something
inherently beautiful
in being a person born
from violence,
rage,
hatred.
Evil.

And through all of that
being someone who
until their last scrap patience
will choose a path of calm,
peaceful,
gentle.
Sadness.

It is easier to be angry
than it is to be sad.

I would rather be sad
than point the anger I bury
at you.

I deserve peace and calm and I am able to refocus my attention.

The heat of midday has passed
giving way to a cool evening breeze.
The Sun is slowly falling into the horizon
and its beams cast lengthening shadows.

Other than the gentle rustling of the trees,
as the wind breathes over the leaves,
the only sounds are the trilling of insects
and the glorious birdsong
sharing the warmth of a summer’s eve.

We sit in silence,
letting the warm rays caress us,
basking in the tranquility of the scene.

I feel my eyes growing heavy
as a calmness envelops me
and a sense of joy
washes away my cares.

You whisper,“Look!”
and opening my eyes
I catch my breath as I view the sky
turning vibrant orange and red
as the Sun touches that distant horizon.

Sun-blanketed sheets,
a crumpled map of us,
our bodies
a single braid
beneath.

Yesterday’s coffee
- cold -
but still enough.

Dust waltzing
in the slanted light,
each one
a tiny planet
taking flight.

Your breath,
a slow rhythm
on my skin,
quieting all within.

No need for words,
no need to see—
just this
slow
breathing
symphony.

my room --
it's away from the people,
the anxiety, 
the problems,
my grades,
my friends,
my co-workers --
it's just my room.
my sanctuary.

i can move things around
whenever i please,
shift the space
to make it more me.
it's mine.
and its peace.
it's my sanctuary.

The sixteen-year-old dishwasher at work told me she checks the schedule-hoping we’ll share the same shifts. She said she missed me when I took a day off.

A new hire said I have a “wholesome vibe,” like it was the kindest thing he could offer.

A new friend and I sat in his new room, talking about how hard it is to make friends as adults-how rare it is when it feels this easy.

My best friend, miles away, messages to say she got the postcard I sent. She says she loves me.

The one I’m dating tells me I can make mistakes without being a mistake.

A stranger-turned-friend listed all the things she liked about me-minutes after we met. I didn’t know what to say. I smile for hours.

My six-year-old cousins video call me, bursting with stories about their day with my parents. They wave a pride flag on a picnic blanket in the backyard, proud of their brave big cousin. They correct anyone who calls me by my deadname like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

My mom checks in.
She knows it’s been a heavy week.

My dad spends his free time under the hood of my car, my mom hands me her keys so I don’t have to worry.

I visit an old friend's memorial, tell him everything I wish I could have said in person. The wind listens. I think he does, too.

My best friend and I scream old songs in the car, drive to a park by the water, swing until we’re dizzy and aching, and laugh because we’re not kids anymore-but we still want to feel like it.

Another friend is moving out on his own. He asks me to help him make the space feel like home. I say yes, of course. It's an honor.

A best friend and I trade 'I miss yous' like warm hugs un words.

I buy concert tickets for another best friend. It’s one of my favorite artists. We’ll sing ourselves hoarse.

I text my childhood best friend: Happy Pride. Two words that carry years.

I go to a Pride party with my parents and friends. I feel the weight of belonging and it is light.

I plan to trade plants with a girl from work. Roots change hands. Something grows.

And for a moment-no, longer than a moment-I realize:I am overflowing with love.

I love days like this
late day sunshine, early summer bliss.
The magnolia smells of home,
no matter how displaced
June breeze, calm and playful
your hand on my bare waist.

Sometimes I stare out beyond what I can see
and wonder who else has been.
Ancient southern trees
covered in spanish moss where leaves grow thin.
The night approaches
a lone rider with no name
the cover of darkness imposed
and fashions mystery just the same.

Growing restless in the thickness of heat
solstice tastes like sugar and a hidden moon
something mindless and indistinct.
Burning for as long as an eye can blink,
gentle little light of beetle make the way
know it could lead me somewhere far, far off
but here, I so wish to stay.

I'm at the park,
sitting on a bench.
Feeling a little tired,
cause' one day,
it's all gonna end.

The way the trees peacefully sway,
and the people around me,
sit and relax,
with a book in their hands.

The way the cars drive by,
and none of them honk.
The feeling of the sun on my skin,
making me gleam with joy.

One day,
I know it'll all fade.
So until then,
I think I'll rest,
waiting for another day,
where I'll smile again.