Two young girls holding hands
Hiding from a world that won't understand
Being kids and hoping for change
They continued hiding their pain
Two teen girls still in love
Find themselves covered in blood
Black and blue and red and cut
Living would never be enough
Two young women try to hide
But one girl's father discovered the lie
He made her take a final breath
Forced into a waltz with death
One young woman filled with rage
Decided it was time to turn the page
A father dead and sacrifice made
That one woman join the other in the grave
Two dead women finally free
Able to thrive where no one can see
Eternal flames light their path
Hope you do nothing to invoke their wrath
Those who beat and hate
Cannot escape their fate
Two ghost cry
And never die
They placed the reales across the white poorly drawn circle lines. Suddenly, the room became darker as if the sunlight had been flicked off with a switch. Mama was not home, neither was Papa- that meant a house party could be thrown. But Jesus frowned, being in a new place was rather unnerving. New friends had to be made, and the boxes still needed to be unpacked. Boxes of mostly stuff that at this point might not even contain things that could make him smile. The parents worked for their own company, and needed to travel to spread news of their business. Jesus tried to brush these thoughts out of his mind to focus on his work. There was a burst of a strong gust of wind that filled the tiny bedroom- the walls seemed to creak as though something was getting ready to burst out of them.
Jesus stepped back and their eyes opened wide. Tons of pink confetti shot out from the circle that had been drawn on the wooden floor. Jesus gaped at the being before their presence. This thing (whatever it was Jesus had no clue) towered over Jesus' presence. It bowed before Jesus, with a cheeky grin.
In a flash, it snapped its fingers, and Jesus was now in a golden robe. "Yoh, what's the big deal- why you finna tryin' to mess up my drip?"
The being was taken aback. It leaned forward. Then waved its hands back and forth trying to get the confetti out of the way.
Chcukles burst out from the bottom of the thing's gut. Jesus witnessed it slap its knee, and grin, again.
Jesus scoffed. "What the heck...who are you supposed to be anyway?"
The being roared and then replied, "I have come from the netherworld, to grant your every wish!"
Jesus rolled his eyes. "So, you're a genie? Huh, yeah right!"
There was a loud poofing sound. The being shook his head, and said, "Okay, I see I have to convince you, and make you a believer."
Jesus then remembered something that Mama had once told her beloved child. "Some powerful beings from the other side are not to be messed with."
There was no telling what the being had in mind. Jesus just hoped things would not get out of control.
The being stared into Jesus' eyes. It reached in, and found what it needed.
Jesus didn't realize what it was doing. At this point, the only thing that Jesus now thought of was being surrounded by their favorite things:
Red drips on white roses and whiskers on littens
Bright copper dribbles and warm woolen trinkets
Brown paper packages tied up thanks to amaz(e)on
These are a few of my favorite things...
While Jesus' mind wandered into their own world, the being was busy at work. The parents at this time were about to turn onto 13 Milky Way. They were about to park in their driveway when a giant boulder came out of nowhere, crashing them as soon as they placed their hands on the car doors.
Jesus felt a sharp switch from the daydream to a surge of pain that felt like being hit by a train. The sound of chuckles rose, surrounding Jesus' eardrums. The chuckling crescendoed until Jesus felt another wave of pain, this time from near their ears. Jesus placed both hands by their ears, and slowly wiped something off of them.
Jesus stared at the sight of their own blood that was coming from their ears.
The being was still cackling at this point. Jesus tried to scream, but the thing had sealed Jesus' mouth shut. It was as if glue had been placed between both of Jesus' lips.
Jesus closed their eyes, and wished that it could all be over. There was a moment of silence, and Jesus opened their eyes.
The being was still in the bedroom. Its head plopped off its shoulders, and spun around its neck. The thing raised its hands, and dunked its head into Jesus' basketball net. "Oh, look at that maybe I can join the NBA after my tormenting contract comes to an end."
Jesus bemt down on his knees. The being shook his head. "Nah...that's now how this works. Once I am placed on call, I can not take anything back."
The being bent down and picked its head. It stretched, and yawned. "I am beat, kid. I have got to skedaddle to my next gig. It was fancy meeting you in this lifetime. Guess I'll see you in the next one."
In a burst of another tons of pink confetti, the being was whisked away to his next appointment.
#PinkConfetti. (c) 7th Oct., 2022.
Not Broken: Learning I am Asexual
My sexuality has always been an elusive thing. In contradiction to my gender, that has almost never changed. I claimed the label Fluid after coming out to my father about 50 or so times. The first coming out was as asexual, but then I began to doubt myself. There wasn't much representation, and still isn't, for asexuals- especially not for asexual men. My father was the one who suggested I try on the fluid label, see how it fit. For a long time, it was the best one I could find. Looking back, I realize the source of my confusion derived from the changing of my romantic attraction, not sexual. My romantic orientation is like a pin ball that has just been released and is ricocheting off every possible surface. Every surface, in this analogy, is a different gender.
The rare moments I did feel I was asexual "enough" were quickly overtaken by the fog of uncertainty. Was my asexuality due to past trauma? Would I still be ace after I started transitioning? Can I be asexual and still want to have sex? Many more questions and fears would swarm my head. Feelings of worthlessness, because the only word I heard in context with asexuality was the word "broken." So often, Asexual people were, and still are, considered mentally ill. Sex is considered an innate part of being human, the desire for it natural. Asexuality, therefore, is considered unnatural. Those that repeat this harmful rhetoric clearly did not bother to even google the basic definition for this sexuality. Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction, whether people on the ace spectrum have sex is entirely up to them and does not necessarily have a connection to their sexuality.
Aces can still want to engage in sex or generally desire it. We simply are not sexually attracted to the person(s) we engage with. Sex can be healing as well as destructive. As a trans man, my relationship with my body has never been great. I view it as a house in desperate need of remodeling. Sex can be gender affirming for those of us who have had to put in some serious work to love ourselves.
Besides the struggle between my brain and body, I am also Autistic. As an Autistic man, I didn't want to be vocal about my lack of sexual attraction. I felt that would further the stereotype of Autistic people as children, and therefore considered without sexual desire. There is a relatively high number of autistic people who fall on the ace spectrum, but that did not relieve the pressure. I love how my brain works, how I exist in this world, but I do not want to further harmful stereotypes that seek to degrade me and my community. It took me a long time to finally realize the best way I could help my community is living authentically.
During my last year of college, I finally began the work to better myself. I suffer from PTSD, and had never expected to live long, so I hadn't bothered to try hard to get better. During my journey of healing, I finally started on Testosterone. This made me much more comfortable with myself, and provided some much needed relief. My relationship with my body became better as it began to change. The only real unexpected change from the new flood of hormones was the increase of my sex drive. I read the piece of paper my doctor had me read over and sign, describing all possible changes due to taking testosterone. I knew logically this would occur, but that is very different from actually experiencing it. This specific change made the difference between libido and sexual attraction apparent. As best as I can describe it, sex drive (or libido) is like feeling hungry. It is a need that has to be filled some way. Sexual attraction is like being hungry for a specific food. I had been very depressed for as long as I could remember before starting T. I had not realized how much my depression medications and mental illness had suppressed my sex drive.
Once I figured out the difference between libido and attraction, It became much easier to accept my asexuality. No more were the creeping doubts that had plagued me in the past. For the first time, I felt almost whole. The work and time I had spent healing myself had certainly not gone to waste. My depression lessened; the words that had felt like knife wounds now fell off like drips of water. I no longer cared if I seemed stereotypical to some Ableist people. I am a living, breathing, human being, I could never be the card board cut out they seemed to so desperately want.
With my newfound self worth and desire to learn more about asexuality, I went on youtube and found a couple of people I greatly related to. I learned asexuals can want a sexual relationship and our feeling towards the act of sex itself can be divided into three general categories: Sex repulsed, Sex indifferent, or sex favorable. I swing between sex indifferent to sex favorable most days. I am sex favorable for other people. This simply means: good for you.
The most recent time I said "I am asexual" out loud was in a small room in my home, nobody around. Nobody to hear my small triumph. Though I had said it to people before, come out to some friends and family, I still wasn't entirely sure that label fit. I still felt afraid to claim it. This time, it felt like a relief. A burst of joy blossomed inside my chest. It pushed out all the uncertainty and left a lovely warm feeling. I felt the warm, glowing rays of the sun shimmering over my heart for a moment.
I do not have a label I am entirely comfortable with containing my romantic feelings yet. But then, labels do not need to be forever.
In conclusion, to all my fellow aces this pride month, you are not broken. You are beautifully whole.
Happy Pride Month, Prose!
Happy Pride Month to all my friends here on Prose!
#LGBT #LGBTQ #PrideMonth #LoveisLove
From your closet door emerged
Colors of our youth now purged
Into sexual connotations urged
Who you are behind your door
Bare-skinned world you implore
Publicly you must explore
At what cost?
In their faces, bewildered youth
God’s creation, altered truth
Implications attached uncouth
Close your house your room your door
March the public streets no more
Hide yourself, your face, your core
At what cost?
To love all, these colors show
Kindness bound our children grow
Led by youth, world in tow
Our colors never again tainted
Arched across the sky, God painted
One with Him acquainted
I looked up "pride" in the thesaurus, and found "self-esteem," "self-love," "self-worth."
Pride is also an emotion—the feeling of contentment the shines from somewhere deep inside myself when I know I've done something well. When I follow through, when I help, when I grow, when I say no to what doesn't serve or yes to what does.
I think sometimes I look for worth outside myself. I reflect back everything I find in other places, and wonder if that makes me enough. But it doesn't; it never did. True worth comes from within, and that golden feeling of pride is what happens when I know I'm enough.
I think I've seen myself as easy; easy to get along with. It wasn't always that way, but the walls I built put me in a safe place where I can forget I wasn't seen or heard.
I thought loving myself was easy for me, but maybe it wasn't. It was, and it wasn't.
Pride is the opposite of shame. We took our shame and swished and squashed it in our fingers and re-shaped it into pride. We've known the way shame and pride need each other, felt how the strongest pride creates the strongest shame, and the strongest shame creates the strongest pride.
We've wondered, am I enough? (Am I gay enough? Am I straight enough? Am I queer enough? Am I good enough?)
And where we can, we've found each other. We've wrapped our arms all together, a net of breathing limbs, and held on tight.
We're learning how to be seen and heard.
We're learning how to feel we are enough. (Not how to be enough, because we were enough all along; we're learning how to feel it.)
We're learning what makes us human.
And to anyone who feels threatened by it all: maybe you're jealous of our freedom. Maybe you haven't found your own humanity yet. Maybe you've never been seen or heard. Maybe you've never been hurt for who you are, and not because no one's ever hurt you (I know you've been hurt), but because you don't know who you are.
I know you're scared. We all are. But it's okay to take a look inside yourself and realize that you might not be just what you thought. You might not be normal. You might not be easy.
I've wondered, am I enough? (Am I good enough? Am I queer enough? Do I even belong here?) And maybe that's why I'm so proud that the answer is, "yes!"
she told me she had to write
a let of recommendation
for her friend
to adopt from China
she had to leave out
that her friend was a lesbian
which was forbidden
meaning she was unsuitable
I wonder what was
a baby girl when
the biological parents
craved only sons
or the adoptive mother’s shame
for being gay
waiting for a child
that won’t care either way
An Analysis on a Historical Epic Poem.
I grew up in a community library. Book drives and donations, or the lost and found or someone waiting to forget brought in books during Late December and Early Summer, but mostly, it was just us; worn covers and hand-me-downs. Little spinal fractures and spirals twisting on the front covers.
From time to time, a book would watch daylight from the wooden oak. Some left and returned. Some disappeared without a trace. I sat somewhere in between the history sections and the poetry, such things we had signs for; romance, fantasy, biographies and recipes, big dictionaries that couldn't walk as well as the others and sat down with a heavier sigh each time they were used, older versions gradually disappearing into dust.
I listened to music from a small radio. Scanned newspapers from this angle. Watched boxes come in and out and in again. Watched piles of coffee cups take over the table.
I liked this. I didn't mind the sages to my left; stroking their beards and smoking pipes, or wearing rhinestone glasses, or wearing old army uniforms and kohl around their eyes. I didn't mind the worn, dusty blazers to my right, scarves drawn tight around the neck, black spectacles and ink stains on their calluses. I liked the consistent scent of coffee, the music from the radio, the rain beating through the windowpane, this big brown shelf with big brown and black and white books.
So, being shelved with the classics was an anomaly. There were less scarves, more necklaces, and elaborate dresses with skirts that could span the size of a walking path. Skirts that covered your legs or that ended at your knees, painted with watercolour, the vagueness of a grey-ish tone between the primary colours and rainy days. I looked at my own turquoise rhinestone glasses and patchy muslin scarf and my skirt, that ended at my knees, painted something like the sunlight before dawn. I made some friends.
It was as if a hummingbird knocked at my window. I clicked my ruby shoes thrice and ended up in two different places; I watched the coffee drain out of the pot from two angles and heard the rain hit atop my head instead of right beside me. I watched the librarian shelve and reshelve books, watched borrowers and books through a full century around the library and ended up home each time. I watched fiction books look at romance and chat over tea, and history books visit the philosophy section and stay for a few weeks. I heard the small click of heels on the wooden floor and sat on the table and grew up that way.
This is a short piece based on Pride Month: I won't get into anything heavy or serious or political, but on an emotional level, Pride Month is about acceptance and identity, personally. I use the labels aromantic and asexual, and I grew up in a family that didn't really acknowledge either; a brilliant family, but that expected me to find love and get married one day. Not really a possibility for me. Whoops. So, outside my family, I had friends and a community that could support me where they couldn't; I started believing I was less defective, like I could belong somewhere and be myself at the same time.
I fit in with the community I grew up in, more or less, but my own personal experience has seen me try on different labels, fitting my own needs to encompass myself - to be a person without having to compromise positive parts of me. It's not the best metaphor, but it's kind of how I think of it.
Not everyone's had this experience. Some people were shelved wrong entirely. Some were made with the wrong cover. It's complicated, but who we are, who we love, parts of ourself that we want to talk about: this community, especially as this level, shows that we are not alone. Who we are, how far we want to look and label ourselves; it us up to us. And there is support.
And I find that kind of beautiful.
I won't be offended if you don't agree with it. I know; it's different for everyone and sometimes difficult to understand. And, personally, I just don't really care if anyone's offended by the Pride community, as long as we treat each other with respect, right? If you are and you still read this, thank you.
Thanks for reading. Happy Pride, loves <3
What does Pride month mean to me?
To the average straight cis-male like me it might not mean much. However, to me, it is a time to appreciate and accept all those who are different. Men can love men. Women can love women. Those questioning their gender identity should be able to express themselves how they want to and feel comfortable with it. No one should take it away.
As for me, I stand with them, waving a rainbow flag in one hand while the other grasps their free hand.
Happy Pride Month, Prose!
#Pride #PrideMonth #lgbt #loveislove