haley 16h

my heart flutters at
the way she speaks my name.
"lover", she hums,
and i watch speechless as woebegone
drips from her lips. she
tastes like moonlight
when she kisses me. fragile.
unknown. known.
when our bodies meet
i can't imagine living life any
differently than this;
magnetism draws me closer and
i am intoxicated and sobered and
and i let my fingers
trace symphonies over her skin
love songs and love letters
and the lust of
knowing that this is belonging.
we fold into each other
and it is inevitable. i want to
learn her, learn
every part of her, as if
it's what my soul was sent to do;
her heartbeat weaves a
gossamer of beauty and
she leaves it in the crease of my
neck. "lover".
lightworker. twinflame.
architect of this home, these
two arms that sing safety
into rose quartz bones.
this is harmony.
i release a held breath and
whisper back, "always".
this is my promise.

wrote this sweet one about my sweet girlfriend. a favorite.
fairyenby Jul 19

I was not made to be a waitress. To carry plates and pull pints and count coins and be able to breathe at the same time. I should have given up. Four years in and my boss was still telling them that it was my first night, not to mention that time someone half-jokingly asked me, a completely sober seventeen year old with an anxiety disorder in a family owned bistro in white middle-class conservative Hexham, if I was drunk. I was not made for fake confidence and biting back tears, for toilet cubicle walls and breathe in, breathe out, all you had to do was carry the potatoes to table five. I was not made to be a waitress in the same way that I was not made to understand the art of mathematics. The times tables in their white linen shirts stained with my clumsiness laughing at me as I dropped plates and couldn’t subtract fifty four pence from five pounds seventy two at the till. I wasn’t made for sequence. For questions with definite answers, I was not made for having to be right. I was made for having to be wrong. Over and over, for fucking up a lime and soda, or was it lemon? Four years into a job. I was made for honesty. For answering you truthfully when you ask me what I am thinking. I was made for chocolate on the hob and strawberries tickled with sugar in hand, for the familiarity of the songs of a home friend’s band, I was made for softness. For your lips on my lips and my hands on your hips and the imprint of your freckles on my cheek. I was made for learning that this is not weak. For learning that I was made for me.  For dancing badly and laughing loudly and eating messily. We, on the other hand, were not made for each other the way people appear to be on film, the megabus trips without air-conditioning and the seven inches and 165 miles that fall between us the ever persistent proof. I was not made for you, designed so that our lives would perfectly intertwine but what does it matter when in this moment I think I was made for this. For half-lit, half-fit bliss. For reading poetry to you at three am until you fall asleep, when all that is left is the hum of your breath as my voice echoes milk and honey, making me feel like I could be made for anything, even though we’re apart.

Sidenote: June ’17- this time there was only one 'first night' at my new job.

20/2/17 /

a work in progress
fairyenby Jul 17

He awoke and found himself
inside the body of another.
Safe in the darkness
gentle amniotic arms held him whilst muffled voices dictate his fate
“You’re having a girl” they exclaimed,
and he lay, wondering what this meant.  

He awoke and found himself  
inside the words of another.  
Inside the “brother” he never was, rather than never had  
and the “boy”  that scuffed his knees in adventure.  

He awoke and found himself
“a pretty girl”, “a princess”, “just like her mother”
so he closed his eyes and dreamt of another.
A world of train-sets and barber shops,
birthday candle wishes to replace long, curly locks

he awoke, and found himself floating
in space
his face, unrecognisable in the mirror.  
His chest seemed to grow branches  
as if by night the doctors that had pulled him from her womb
had suddenly discovered his secret.  

They grew like thorns until they were all he could see.
Those and the other boys, s h a t t e r i n g jigsaw piece body parts
every time he looked at them.  
He wondered why when their voices deepened, it was called a voice  
break and not a gift.  
A broken larynx. A birthday present lost in the post,
instead he unwrapped their super glued puzzle pieces,
piling them onto his plate
if you eat your vegetables, you’ll grow up to be a man.

“You’re having a girl”, more like “You can pass go but you will never collect 200 dollars”.
“You’re having a girl”, more like “earthquakes will erupt inside your mind every time you hear the words
“She”, “Her”, “Sister”
“You’re having a girl”, but he was  

“He”, “His”, “Mister”.

And when he cut his hair, and found himself  
in the arms of over-sized t-shirts and grown out leg hair,
they would say
“you look like a boy”, as if they expected him to protest in offence
but his heart feels as warm as the breeze that blows through thornless branches of trees  
and he wants to say thank you.  
He wants to say that the words  
“You look like a boy” manage to stitch up his jigsaw piece body parts,
for these are the words that cut through his mothers dresses and threw away the thread
these, are the words that in time would cause his voice to break;
remind him that he is not broken
and bury his girlhood beneath his bed.

October 2016
Anja Jul 16

I am
Mostly dependent
On independent people
Especially when they’re women—
Especially when they’re you.

You, with your
High-pitched laugh and your
Dark hair up and your
Pride loud but your
Voice louder and

I am dependent
And most days I repent it
To have my body and
Soul and
Heart and
Head in

And you
have your head and—
Your head.
And that’s, you say,
What you like in me.
That’s the takeaway:
My academic
Not the late nights spent
Holding you or the
Times I went
To comfort you
Or the energy used
To convince you
it’s true:
You are

Enough, I said
On the floor
I told myself
I couldn’t do this

Am a person
Not a therapist
Per se
A laborer
A construction worker
for you
And me
And us but
Even I can’t fix a
One-way street,
Not me.

Although sometimes I’d like to—
Especially when you look at me the way you do and
Lift my skirt and break the rules
And scream louder than
Anyone else,

You ghost-like figure
Presence-less, you sometimes-mess
And yet I insist to
Chase you
but you’re the one who will haunt me
through and through,
You and your fucked-up ways
To show
After all,
There is not space for me
in ‘I.’

But then I remember
The way you defy
Expectations—including mine
and every time
You deny
that you are afraid
For your life
But let me tell you
So am I
Afraid for my heart when we’re apart
But lately also
When we are together.

See, I knew this wasn’t forever
But I thought the end was yet to come,
Not yesterday.
Or I guess maybe it was
Right at the start—
The first time you kissed me
And the first time I missed you
When you didn’t miss me,

And now you have me here
In this space
This in-between,
And I,
A basket case—
Wishing that
I wasn’t here
I wasn’t queer
That maybe if I found a man
I could spare myself this
Late-night pain and
Post-drink drain
I will find a husband and
A house to stay in with
a white-picket fence and
that I am numb so that
I won’t feel happiness
but I won’t feel loss
I won’t feel like this
Ever again.

So here I am and
Although it’s different this time around
I am still bound
by my roots
And my wounds and my soul.
This may make me dependent but at least
When I said I loved you I meant it—
Yes, I am in love with you,
From the start, everyone knew
And they told me to
And run I did
Right toward you
You, my gone-too-soon,
And I am
A fool.

this poem sounds the best when it's performed, but I hope you also enjoy the written version.
Riot Jul 14

I was so close to just saying it,
you decided
to make it
sound horrible.

chipped tooth Jul 13

Who are you, a Man?
A God fearing creature made in the image of God,
And like Our Lord, you are surrounding
Even when I hide from you.
For whom his own Ego are the gates of Heaven-
God, why are you afraid?
That I may not love you how Eve loved the apple.
What is my pleasure if it cannot please you,
But you shall be appeased in knowing that my love is fruitless
By design.
As though I'm the Virgin herself, crack my rib
And tell me that no woman deserves your Son
Who cannot sacrifice her heart
to a Man of God

Anja Jul 8

To be the ‘other’
Is fun.
It’s the new black, haven’t you heard?
Everyone is doing it now.
Such a sweet memory—
walking down the street
And being stabbed;
There’s a sweet melancholy
In being called ‘abomination’ and ‘bad.’

It’s 2 a.m.
She was a poet and
Her poetry spoke;
It was beautiful,
But it wasn’t quite her.

You see, you can’t sell something if
you’re queer or
A woman,
And if you’re both, well, then you’re
Out of luck.

Yes, her poetry spoke but
was always herself
And never her lover;
They always told me
There’s a whole world out there to discover—
But only if you’re straight.
Otherwise, you’ll have to do it
Under cover.
Listen, it’s not me
But the neighbors don’t want to be bothered.

So her poetry spoke but
Not with her voice.
Because, after all,
being gay was a choice
And others don’t want to be troubled.
But what if they discovered
What it means to be the ‘other’?

I guess we’ll never know.

Tife Jul 1

They scared her so straight
She now lives in the closet,
afraid of small spaces and going to hell.
She’s looking for Narnia
While searching and screaming for a place to belong,
a place to run away from the hell of this world.
If Jesus said love,
why is hers so wrong?
She keeps asking questions and begging for answers,
yet they all disappear in the closet.
Is it so wrong for girls yo like girls?
And question the norm while we question ourselves
She sits in the closet and questions her heart
For it has betrayed her
like the girls she once loved
Who just couldn't keep their mouths shut.
The closet door opens slightly
It creaks and fear creeps in
Homophobia screams at her
He calls her a faggot
a freak of nature
Nothing more than burning sticks.
Burning the closet down
Releasing her from homophobia
Hell like flames engulf the closet
Ashes surround her
and she reclaims the voice Hate so violently stole from her
she shouts

Tsaa Jun 24

oh, wow, it's bright out today
there's color everywhere, people shining smiles at you as if you've known each other for years
somehow, you feel home
but do you remember what it was like in the dark?
or well, what it was like being in the closet?

the closet was a cold place where i was surrounded by the same four corners and in these four corners i had very little space to be the person i am
i try to stretch out but there's not enough room so i limit myself so as i'm not a problem
i limit myself so people don't have to take the time to build a bigger closet for me
i mean, if they're happy with the way the closet is why should they change it right
why would they waste time on something that they perceive as a mistake to society

the closet was a place that made me feel alone even though i was out in a crowd
it's like i see people but i can't act pass the limits that this closet provides for me
i try to break through this closet but this closet has long been under maintenance honey
one wrong move and this wood could crumble and people will look at you as if you were a joke

the closet didn't allow me full access to opening its door, or doors if that's the kind of closet you'd perceive
i'd open the tiniest little peek, and only a few people saw me open up that tiny space
they'd approach and wonder, but they approached me differently
i knew that no matter how beat up this closet was, they came with no harm and they'd even help keep this closet in tact as long as it's my safe space for the time being
i'd tell them how much i love the closet, and they'd tell me of the life outside it

the closet was a place that i considered a home while hiding from my family who called the closet names
they hated the closet, they'd rather have nothing to do with it
but like most people, why would they waste their time on a beat up closet

the closet was a place where i hid from the girl i liked knowing that she'd never like me back
it was where i could sulk for all the times i wish i could be the one she smiled at every single day
but for now all she sees a fabricated person hidden behind a beat up closet, and not me for me

but now i'm tired of the closet, it's boring, the wood is being chipped off, my friends who understand are waiting for me
the day came when i finally decided to step out of the closet
it was a slow process but i managed to pull through it
there were people who forced me back in but there were even more people who helped me step out
and looking back at that beat up closet, i decided to break it apart myself and it was the best i've ever felt in a long time

and i'm telling you, it really is bright out today
there's color everywhere, people shining smiles at you as if you've known each other for years
this, this is home
this is what i missed in the dark
this is my safe space

in celebration of pride month and my first time at pride
Riot Jun 24

Kiss me like we’re going to die tonight.

Kiss me like a meteor
will crash down on top of us
and we’ll burn͞
(like the churches want us to burn)
Under it.

Kiss me like I did
Back when I still cared what people thought
And kissed boys the way I thought
Was socially acceptable
Because being gay was wrong then.

Kiss me like we’re that stupid couple
That make out in the hallways
like they’ll never see each other again
and block our way to our classes.

Kiss me like those lesbian love songs you love so much,
let our rhythm play the beat through us,
and let it make you believe I can sing,
because this is the only time I’m in key.

Kiss me like we’re going to die tonight.

I can't sleep
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