the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right

in the supposedly post-racial united states of america

the only thing this society seems to be is post humanity.

black americans are routinely treated with barely a shred of human decency.

stripped of our agency under the iron fist of white supremacy

post the cold blooded murders of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Kimane Gray, John Crawford, and countless others-

these are the strange fruits that hang from our nation’s poplar trees.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. or is it nineteen sixty four? many a time I have opened the morning paper to see headlines that would not be out of place in that era of bloodshed.

more care given to a cotton cloth flag than to the black bodies that lie battered and broken in the streets.

"think of the businesses!" they scream, mouths afroth.

but won't anyone think of the black children murdered for carrying BB Guns? won't anyone think of the fathers? the mothers? the sons and daughters whose lives are cut short by those who are supposed to 'protect and serve?'

I will stop "making this about race" when the police stop giving me reason to fear for my life simply for existing. it is not enough to be peaceful and innocent anymore.

does this conversation upset you? can you not cope with these atrocities that go on every day in your precious land of the free?

In a sick way it almost makes sense

that in a nation built from nothing upon the backs of the enslaved

that it would take a bit longer than a hundred and fifty years to stop feeling the pain.

the whips and chains that once bound us were not broken, but merely transformed.

our shackles are now student loans;

plantations were exchanged for privatized prisons and lynch mobs now wear blue uniforms.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.

maybe it’s got something to do with the way that all people seem to care about nowadays is iggy azalea’s new hit single but not the way that white rappers want to be black so badly up until it’s time to fight for us. to march with us. to die with us.

miley cyrus can prance around onstage fetishizing black bodies like modern day hottentot venuses but when black bodies are being violated by the police she’s strangely silent.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.


but there is a light that shines through this darkness. that light is within me, and you, and within the hearts of every single man and woman of all colors and creeds who raises their fists and says "No more."  

our fight is not over. the road will be long. it is very possible that more will die along the way.  but their deaths will not be in vain.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. but it will not be this way forever.

and and fourteen and something isn't right

in the supposedly post-racial united states of america

the only thing this society seems to be is post humanity.

black americans are routinely treated with barely a shred of human decency.

stripped of our agency under the iron fist of white supremacy

post the cold blooded murders of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Kimane Gray, John Crawford, and countless others-

these are the strange fruits that hang from our nation’s poplar trees.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. or is it nineteen sixty four? many a time I have opened the morning paper to see headlines that would not be out of place in that era of bloodshed.

more care given to a cotton cloth flag than to the black bodies that lie battered and broken in the streets.

"think of the businesses!" they scream, mouths afroth.

but won't anyone think of the black children murdered for carrying BB Guns? won't anyone think of the fathers? the mothers? the sons and daughters whose lives are cut short by those who are supposed to 'protect and serve?'

I will stop "making this about race" when the police stop giving me reason to fear for my life simply for existing. it is not enough to be peaceful and innocent anymore.

does this conversation upset you? can you not cope with these atrocities that go on every day in your precious land of the free?

In a sick way it almost makes sense

that in a nation built from nothing upon the backs of the enslaved

that it would take a bit longer than a hundred and fifty years to stop feeling the pain.

the whips and chains that once bound us were not broken, but merely transformed.

our shackles are now student loans;

plantations were exchanged for privatized prisons and lynch mobs now wear blue uniforms.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.

maybe it’s got something to do with the way that all people seem to care about nowadays is iggy azalea’s new hit single but not the way that white rappers want to be black so badly up until it’s time to fight for us. to march with us. to die with us.

miley cyrus can prance around onstage fetishizing black bodies like modern day hottentot venuses but when black bodies are being violated by the police she’s strangely silent.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.


but there is a light that shines through this darkness. that light is within me, and you, and within the hearts of every single man and woman of all colors and creeds who raises their fists and says "No more."  

our fight is not over. the road will be long. it is very possible that more will die along the way.  but their deaths will not be in vain.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. but it will not be this way forever.

When I walk down the street and a man calls me 'Sweet ****'
With his wedding ring clad hand resting on the rolled down window of his SUV
I am supposed to like it
Fat girls should be grateful someone wants them, after all
Women should be grateful for the attention of strangers
Women are taught to be sponges
Domestic and silent and absorbing the words of men around them
If a woman talks 30 percent of the time
A man will feel like she is dominating the coversation
A man calling a woman 'baby' on a street corner is a compliment
But a teenage girl saying a celebrity has nice eyes is fetishizing
Men are taught that they are the default mode
While women are taught to make room
Men sit with their legs spread and elbows out on subway trains
Women tuck their ankles together and rest their hands in their laps
The great crime of patriarchy though
Isn't the way it affects how men feel about women
But how women feel about women
Like every great dystopian novel on the planet
We are taught to hate ourselves and hate each other
Because that will keep us distracted from the real problem
The richest woman in the world  makes one sixth what the richest man makes
Girls are still afraid to speak up in classrooms from first grade to PHDs
No one listens when we start talking
So we start screaming
And everyone just tells up to shut up
And stop being so **** sensitive

She’s shiny. No, not like a diamond, or a new toy, or when you polish a glass just right.

    … Not even quite like a star.

She’s just…

s h i n y.

To call her a beacon of hope, of joy, of anything would be patronizing, would be dehumanizing, maybe even fetishizing and associating any of those words with her makes you cringe, makes you ache with rage at yourself, but -

  She.
  Shines.

She is the agonizing sun in your eyes when you are driving and the sunbeams that feed the flowers in your garden.

both the highlight of your day and also the worst part
for the warmth in your chest, the fire in your heart,


You suppress and deny until you are almost fool enough to believe yourself when you say “i’m not in love, i’m not in love, i’m not in love”
  
She shines

She shines so bright it hurts, but you want it to hurt, you can’t imagine it any other way

So you burn, and you burn alone, and maybe always will, because the words dancing inside you -

“Hi, my name is - ”
“I like your skirt”
“What was the homework for Spanish?”
“Hey! I noticed the scratch down your arm, I also have a cat - actually, I have three”

- die before they reach your tongue.

                            … she’s probably straight, anyway.

she lays on one side,
and he lays on the other.
                                               ✦
she is a beautiful flower against the brutalist landscape,
he, thistle and thorn on a path rightfully left untrodden.
                                               ✦
she is an ornate nib against the parchment, gliding with grace,
he, a metal implement against the wood, etching with fire.               
                                               ✦
she is my first musing in the early morning,
he, my final contemplation at night.
                                               ✦
she is the uplifting ionian in a chord progression,
he, the dark, dissonant sharp iv of the fanciful lydian.
                                               ✦
she smiles,
he frowns.
                                               ✦
i  know i can't keep fetishizing the idea of compromise.
s o  g e t  o u t  o f  m y  h e a d,
and croon the dirge with me.
                                               ✦
no more rifts or ultimatums, please.
please...
i can't be alone any longer.
                                               ✦
don't make me choose right now.
no. NO.
just hold me tight,
and tell me things will get better.
                                               ✦
in my nightstand, there lies a bottle of pills
(some old opioids, i think)                                            
and a paring knife.
                                               ✦
you both are the reason i don't pick up either.
both of you are my lifeline...
no more rifts or ultimatums, please.
just both of you, and me.
                                               ✦
can you love two people at once?

Tonight
The air is ******* its cheeks
& surgical--
Whilst I walk through the tufts of mottled grass
Fetishizing stage mothers falling on kitchen knives
& school girls wearing **** whistles around their necks like charms
& at 11:26 it comes on to me
In the choking on discussions of
Muted liberties—
Civil duties—
Toothless ethics—
& the sleight given upper hands
& now they glass me real good
Looking to me for my rebuttal
But it is now taut around my throat
Taking hold like a drunken uncle
For all the times I stuck my neck out on the line
& it happens like this most every time
In moments so gentle, so tranquil
The kind that only the sting of a horsefly
Or the discovery of a tumor could tamper with
& I am left filled with a love so grandiose
So indescribable—
That my heart swells & threatens to burst
& if they could hear me mutter just that
Then maybe this wouldn't be such a bad way to go at all

i hate pedophiles. i don't care what you want to deem yourself as, if you're attracted to a minor of any sort, you're a ******* ****. you always will be. don't even try to change it. you're hurting literal children. doesn't even matter if they're a teenager. neither does gender. you are traumatizing a literal child. they'll look back on you and think, "wow. that really changed me, and for the worst."

if you get off to ****, you're an awful human being. you are literal ****. you like to watch people be hurt like that? maybe it takes an experience like that to change your views. maybe it takes actually being ***** to understand. it changes you forever and leaves so much pain. mentally and physically. the damage cannot be undone, no matter how long it is after. you think i ENJOYED being ignored when i said no? you think ****** assault is just a cute little fetish? *******. do whatever it takes to never speak to any victims. you'll probably ******* to it later.

when someone tells you their pronouns, do the world a favor and RESPECT that. if this person is trans, don't call them by their dead name. don't call them the opposite pronouns of what they want to be called. it's awful. gender dysphoria eats me alive every ******* day, and you can't take time to even think about how that weighs me down? i want to **** myself on a regular basis because i just don't feel right anymore. my binder doesn't even help sometimes. i look at myself and i know i'm just wrong. wrong body. wrong EVERYTHING. i don't like getting made fun of. being trans/non-binary/whatever you are isn't some cute little trend or a choice.

stop fetishizing trans men. and trans women too! trans MEN (key word, MEN) aren't some cute little uwu soft boys. we aren't something you can just play with. trans women aren't "sissies" and most certainly are not trans just for your pleasure. as a trans man, i know how it feels to be fetishized. i am a man.
you can't just make someone "not trans". calling them their dead name/dead pronouns to change anything. nothing will change the absolute torment they experience on a daily basis. as bad as it sounds, we can't help but suffer. gender dysphoria is a curse. understand that.

i'm 15. i'm a trans male. i'm not your toy.

Every year about 800 000 people lose the constant war they have with themself. A stranger to you, someone who meant nothing, but that someone once was somebody else's everything.

Our mental illnesses and disorders have been so overly glorified and romanticized in today’s media, music, and social media. It has become desirable and trendy, and it’s making me sick.
Our problems weren’t discovered, closely studied, monitored, and used to give us an answer to the questions why, when, and how, just for some teens to use it as a way to evoke shame and make fun of someone.
There are over 171, 476 words used in the English language, 10,000 adjectives, 2,123 adverbs, 46 conjunctions, 77 interjections, 17,450 nouns, 26 particles, 39 prepositions, 17 pronouns, and 5,986 verbs. I bet there are a bunch of other adjectives to call your friend when they “go crazy”.
So please stop using our chemical imbalances and the result of years of traumas because you need to feel unique.

No, we aren’t okay with you using our pain and struggles as a way for you to feel edgy and special.
“I Am NoT lIkE oThEr GiRlS” No, you are lying to yourself and
others by faking and exaggerating your anxiety and your depression because it’s “SO ROMANTIC WHEN A BOY SAVES YOU”.

But truth be told;
Kissing your partner's scars isn’t adorable.
Saving someone from a suicide attempt doesn’t make you a brave hero.
Anxiety disorders don’t transform you into a poor struggling soul needing someone to save you.
Depression never turned me into a misunderstood beautiful flower, someone who’s fragile and needs protection.
Bipolar disorder is so extremely much more than “just mood swings”;
When I have a manic episode it doesn’t mean I am suddenly super productive.
Dealing with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is not “so cool or so crazy” it’s best explained as living in an unpredictable nightmare, but you can not wake up.
Being paranoid is not cool, you are in a constant fight or flight mode, and you are thinking something bad will happen any second.
Having Anorexia is not the same thing as just skipping breakfast one morning.
Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) is not a “gift or superpower” you suddenly wanted to give to yourself with no right to do so.
Having social anxiety is not quirky, it’s debilitating.
Succeeding or failing a Suicide attempt won’t make all of your bullies suddenly stop being bullies and make them feel guilty.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is not the same as liking it when things are organized.
Bulimia is not a diagnosis you should aspire to get, you won’t turn into a beautiful thin person, you will turn into a dying mentally unstable wreck.
Being diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) doesn’t equal not knowing how to make friends and enjoying being alone.
No, You don’t have Tourette Syndrome (TS), I have never heard of a TS type where you only have trouble with “vocal tics” when someone is not doing what you ask them to. You simply just lack manners and have no idea how to read a room, your parents failed to turn you into a decent human being and you just don’t feel like working on it.
Insomnia is a lot more than staying up 1 out of 7 days a week because you “did not feel tired and was too bored to stay in bed”.
Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) is not ******* easy to live with and doesn’t mean you are weak.
My daddy issues are not **** or make me a freak in bed.                          
Schizophrenia and other psychotic disorders are not “Only hearing and seeing things”.
Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD) doesn’t mean someone is coldhearted and evil.
Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) is not the same as having different personalities with different friend groups.
Addicts are not weak, dumb, or “only have themself to blame.”
Being burned out doesn’t equal you thinking school or work is boring.

To even get evaluated we often have to fight for years until we find a psychiatrist who takes us seriously. Some of us find ourselves dumbfounded by the answers to the questions we have had to deal with for years and stuff we thought everyone dealt with.
Others are not that lucky and have to do most of the work themself, they find out what is wrong after thoroughly reading every article on PubMed, MedScape, and WebMD they can find. Because, honestly, psychiatrists do **** sometimes.

Society has been fetishizing our mental illnesses and disorders for way too long.
You see my crazy as **** and desired until my crazy pops up out of thin air and ends with wounds, blood, traumas, antipsychotics, and paramedics.
We get belittled, invalidated, and have our symptoms dulled down because people get off to them.
I am not your manic pixie dream girl or your Harley Quinn.
If the “type” of people you get attracted to is mentally unstable girls with daddy issues, a chemical imbalance, and a lack of impulse control, you are a part of the problem.

Also, Meghan Markle won’t see the embarrassing Facebook posts you write about how you don't believe she was “really suicidal and only wanted attention”, but your suicidal friends will.

You know who’s not laughing at your jokes about how people who died or were lucky enough to survive their suicide attempt are weak and how they “took the easy way out”? Your best friend who’s barely holding on, or maybe it’s your little sister tempted by the bottle of pills in her hand, or maybe, just maybe, it’s your lover who locked themself in the bathroom and is currently gasping for air on the cold tile floor because they would rather go through their panic attack completely alone than having to ask for your help. Is your joke still funny?

We are asked: “have you ever considered how your mental illness makes ME feel? How much you are hurting me?
And yes we have. We worry about that every single day of our life. And every single hour we spend awake we are overwhelmed with the feeling that our loved ones would be so much better off if we just died, but thank you, from the bottom of our hearts for your contribution. There is nothing we love more than being reminded of how much of a burden we are.

I swear we aren’t monsters. The friends I have who are dealing with mental illnesses are some of the kindest, most selfless, and caring people I have ever had the fortune to meet. We have nothing in common except for our serotonin deficiency and we bond through our traumas.
We try our hardest to heal other broken people because we know what rock bottom feels like.
We calm them down and distract them from the breathtaking panic attacks and overpowering suicidal thoughts visiting them at 3 am, because we all know way too well how easy it is to slip in and out of your head, and how it feels to lose touch with reality.
We stay up throughout the night to keep each other safe and breathing because deep down we are all just a bunch of suicidal kids telling other suicidal kids that suicide isn’t the answer.
We check-in and remind each other to eat, take our meds and stay hydrated.
We repeatedly prove the voices in our friends' heads wrong, while we listen blindly to our own demons believing every cruel and damaging lie they feed us.
We are lost kids looking for someone to call our own and somewhere to call home.
We were all raised being told by either our mom or dad or some other adult to not talk to strangers online, because they are dangerous, and they would ruin our lives.
But my mom and dad couldn’t have been more wrong, because when I met strangers online, I didn’t find danger, I found a family.
I have felt love stronger than anything you will ever experience in your life.
We love like we have nothing to lose because we truly have nothing to lose.
We have each other’s backs and we proved that family doesn’t have to be blood.
I am forever grateful towards the ones who stuck around, and to the new ones that life brought to me. The ones who have seen me relapse probably a thousand times but never lost hope, and the ones who were never meant to stay forever. I will always have you back.

What I am trying to tell you with all of this is that we are all fighting for dear life to survive, some of us are so close to falling off the deep end all they need is one small event to tip over, and then we have those who lost their battle, who are gone but never forgotten, taken from us along the road to the place we are today, those the sickness quickly and carelessly took from us, and at the same time robbed the world of the most beautiful people we have ever met.
The world wasn’t ready for you yet,
Alexa

Incorrigibility being the high never worth chasing
while watching the same mistake repeat
a broken record for the deaf
where wondering is criminal
the good guy was never golden
tar black  just better at glimmering
Diamonds are created under immense amounts of pressure
over limbs of time
fetishizing patience
Watching everything obsess what it is not
futility is too humid to vacation in