24: traveling the self

I’m getting to know myself 
better often. 

I can tell 
where I hoarded all my old 
curses, and I found somewhere 
to throw them away 

without causing too much 
harm to my environment. 
I found all my loves 
back from where I misplaced 
them, too - all those little 
baubles of joy in myself 
from long ago. 

I wiped the dust 
off a gospel song I played 
on a cassette one time when I was thirteen 
or fourteen to fall asleep. 

I took the dog ears out 
of a book I refused to read 
because the hand-carved epigraph 
in the corner of the flyleaf 
was love, love 
as I would never have it, love 
as I was afraid of tasting. 

I put every poem I had ever written, 
the ones I would rather print than save, 
in a box beside my dresser, 
cool and dry and 

Some of those are curses; 
I’ve been torn, 
but I decided 
better they be torn than I. 

I made myself neat again 
so I would not trip over anything 
sharp within myself. 
I can find my thoughts 
more simply now, 
lusts in a red folder, 
worries in a blue, 
black for all my rages 
and lily or lilac or lullaby’s 
pink for all my blessings. 

O, to travel every inch of me 
without a hassle has been 
revealing and warm and 
I can only recommend it. 

I wish I had a hand 
to fill the space now, 
all the space left over in the center 
where confusion’s dust bunnies 
hopped and grew and fornicated. 
But I guess 

the space is fine. 
I’ve had far too much 
to scorn.

international-nerd said: Ah, okay, I just read it as much bouncier than I expected then.

I figured as much. And now I’m kinda thinking if I want to toy with that idea. But that would be kinda problematic, wouldn’t it? I imagine him being in class and having to supervise all his stationery because they’d just be prone to lifting off his table. 

international-nerd said: Low gravity?

While that would probably be cool, nah. Identical gravity to Earth.

"I did a little jog to increase my pace, nothing so strenuous that I’d break a sweat under the already annoying heat. Just a little skip, that’s all, clearing the first intersection in three bounds. I almost skipped right into the traffic light and hit my head, but I dodged it artfully enough, not losing stride. Only two more blocks, and then I could avoid these people’s eyes. Hell, maybe this little performance of mine will seem lively enough that someone will think that no self-respecting young black thug would ever make such a fool of himself like this. I doubted it. After all, it’s not like skipping would make me any lighter."

Another of those moments when I absolutely hate a chapter, but one paragraph of one scene just seems to shine for me. 



John Scalzi gets it.

"… the point isn’t ‘ALL men are menaces to women’. The point is ‘ALL women have been menaced by men’." 
That is the highest point of this for me.  i-come-by-it-honestly:

John Scalzi gets it.

"… the point isn’t ‘ALL men are menaces to women’. The point is ‘ALL women have been menaced by men’." 
That is the highest point of this for me. 


John Scalzi gets it.

"… the point isn’t ‘ALL men are menaces to women’. The point is ‘ALL women have been menaced by men’." 

That is the highest point of this for me. 

(via wilwheaton)

23: a fan of the love tap

I’ve gotten a few strokes. 

Look how good a 
man I turned out, 
devoted and fond of 
correcting my mistakes, 

cleaving to my rod 
and having grown up 
wanting more right in my life, 

staying away from the girls 
and calling God’s name 
and standing upright 

just like my lover wanted 
every time she raised a fist- 

what’s that? 

you mean when 
mothers hit children. 

i underst- 


I don’t understand 
the difference. 

Boys hit boys 
for making kissy faces 

and boys hit girls 
for sitting neatly 

and girls hit boys 
for having made friends 

and all of these things 
just act as fingered walls, 
curtains between us and the street 
where we want to be ourselves. 

Hands are 
changing things 
even though you said God makes no mistakes. 

So if correction 
means changing someone’s ways 

means not saying a word 
but answering with white knuckles

means striking while 
the iron is ignorant 

then the girl who thought I was missing, 
never wanted me to see the space around me, 
shackled me far from friendships 
that gave me light 

and wrapped her 
fists around my eyelids 
so I would see nothing and 
feel her 

was only disciplining me. 
Look how good a boy 
I’ve become from that.

I think my only problem with first-person in this draft is that I’m always perfectly aware of what my protagonist is looking at. It’s never just that something is. It’s that either my protagonist is looking at it to describe it or he isn’t, and that means that I always say he’s looking at something, and it feels clumsy and lazy and ineffective. 

But it’s a draft, right? I’ll deal with it.

Every once in a while I will see a kind of idea on Tumblr, a headcanon or just a snippet of a cool fantasy idea, and they’ll act as an interesting prompt. I won’t just think ‘wow, this person has some really interesting ideas about representation in narrative media’; I’ll think, ‘whoa, this person has a really badass story idea this would make for one sick short or even a novel wow motherfucking wow 

are they writing the thing 

because if they’re writing the thing i want to read the thing and share the thing so other people know it exists 

but also 

because if they’re not writing the thing 

like if it’s cool with them 

i want to write the thing 

i think it cool thing 

thing cool 

and it doesn’t deserve to just be a notion on the internet, it deserves to live, so people who feel the same way can feel less angst about it not having happened yet and more joy that it is there, and actively engage in its critique so other people could make better things like it.’ 

Tumblr is a really creative space, (and maybe what I’m about to say is really presumptuous of me because I don’t know what everyone’s doing around here) but especially when it comes to narrative media I guess I kinda wish the writers among us harnessed the power they had to totally shift the conversation away from ‘I wish we had more of this’ to ‘I know this is barely a drop in the bucket compared to all the shit we have to put up with, but I wonder if people would like this if I made it anyway?’ 

I dunno. Just word-vomiting. 

Carry on.

22: 1 lb ground pet meat, TT$23.99 (things that are not lovely)

I can’t paint scars 
rouge, can I? 

I can’t put blush 
over my timidness 

just to draw a wayward 
glance, and if I tried 

it’d be trying too hard, 
I reckon. Right? 

I don’t want to discount the 
value of other people’s consumer decisions, 

but I imagine lost puppies 
in pet store windows think 

the same: 
why won’t anyone choose me  

over a snake 
if they all say they’re dog people? 

Why do they pose outside the window 
and whisper all these cooing things 

if they don’t think they want 
something that grows up 

to the height I will 
when that time comes? 

I looked for that, though: 
a lady once told me 

that it may feel like 
a desert of love now 

but when romance rains 
it pours; 

I haven’t been able to 
recover from the thunderstorm 

that razed all my dry roses 
and flooded out the remaining living 

and said that love meant 
tearing down everything that came before 

(just look at 
all the other letters I’ve mailed to the month of April already). 

If I were just a doll or a brick set, 
a pear or a pack of rice, 

something that won’t feel 
passed upon in the seats beside the aisle, 

then this wouldn’t matter, 
but dogs often feel cold against windows. 

Can I pretty up a 
lost leg? Bark up an eye 

for an empty space? 
Can I whimper til you love me? 

Because if we can say 
all animals need love 

then it should work 
the same way, yeah? 

Let me find the rainy street again, then; 
refuse me, and back to the refuse 

for me, and i’ll make a bed 
and make a meal and 

bite every face like yours, 
because they remind me of 

pet store windows. 
All animals need love. 

If I’m going to feel cold 
let that be on my own terms.