Who would’ve thought

The storm that broke me

has paved the way to my growth

Finally,

I’ve found my own rhythm and flow

Through the chaos and pain,

A strength was reborn,

In the depths of despair,

A new light was born.

The tempest that once shattered,

now breathes my name,

In its fierce, untamed clatter,

I found a new flame

Every time I see something about ancestors being proud of you, about you being their gift to the future I think this:

No, I'm their abomination, the child they never wished to be, the end of the world as they knew it, I am queer and the fact that me, that, originated from them, makes them roll in their graves and I love it. I have learned to feed off their despair and discontent, turning it to love instead of desperation. I use this knowledge to love those like me: the abominations of this world that only ever wanted a home.

I remember this and I keep walking, I keep loving, I hoping hoping out of spite. I keep trying to make this world a better place as revenge. It spurs from anger. My ancestors were colonizers and I have dedicated my life to undoing everything they ever did. I hope they feel worthless and unloved. I hope they watch their own culture of domination disapear, just as they did to so many others. I hope they watch, as I, their descendent, do what they never could, and turn their dreams of a new world into a pile of ash.

i danced with the devil while the fiddle man played

he sold his soul but i gave mine away

he struck a deal and mine was for free

i danced with the devil and he danced with me

didn’t see a tail but he sure had horns

and i got the wrath of seven gals scorned

i ate the fruit with the favor returned

it went down sweet while my outside burned

we danced in circles of sin and lust

his scales were red but i swear he blushed

i stole my baby back across the styx

while the devil slept on level six

i danced with the devil and he’ll miss me

but he didn’t buy me, my love is free

we climbed out of hell, my baby and me

no pillar nor salt grain, our love is free

It's been a long time. A very long time. And I suppose you would have never even received this letter if I had written it down. Mostly because I am afraid. The fearless, shameless girl you once knew is scared.

I wonder if you even remember me, or if I was just an insignificant friend among the many we both know you had. But I am to scared to confirm it because that will hurt. And I don't know what will hurt worse. Trying to forget you day after day, or reaching out and finding you didn't care enough to remember?

The place we would sit together alone under the sun remains unused. I can barely stand sitting there alone, staring at the town below it like we used to.

Even though it's been years, I cannot get over it. Almost like it was yesterday. I believe that there is such time as the right person, wrong time. But I fear there was never a right time, and that there never will be. Mostly because I don't know where you are. And also because I think I would be to scared to approach you again.

I think you will be happy, but now after years I have moved on. Sort of. He's nice, and funny like you are, or were. I don't know anymore. And sometimes when I'm with him laughing I can almost forget that there ever was a before. But still you stay, in my head living. Making me wonder that if I would have said what I always wanted to, maybe I would know the answers to all the questions in me now.

But, there was a before you, so there must also be an after. Although I cry, and try to forget, I won't. But, at least I have found a way to get around the constant memories. I haven't told him about you, and I probably never will because it's easier to pretend there was nobody before him. But just in case you were wondering, and if you've already forgotten that's fine. Because now you get a letter from a stranger you can ignore. But still, just in case. I found joy in the sunrises that were your favorite, and I will stare down at that town, but never from out place. From behind it, and pretend I can see two people sitting there, ahead, and living out their happy lives without it ever breaking.

people will be very proud of you when you are doing well. they always knew you could do it. when you sink down they try not to be disappointed. they know they you have it in you to rise up. when you do not, it becomes hard for them to be personally invested in this. they wish you the best.

they hear you are doing well. they are happy for you. they knew you could do it. they knew you were not a lost cause. they knew you could rise above your sickness.

you sink again.

they say “well she struggled, you know.” (they do not say it to you). it’s no longer their problem. “she had a lot going on.” you are forgiven for doing badly and tolerated from afar for doing bad. why should they support someone who is so fucked up and isn’t a positive force for all the people in their life? your sickness is not an excuse.

they will reassure themselves. why should they tolerate you and your sickness. they have to prioritize themselves. they never promised to support all the symptoms. they will support your recovery from afar. they will cheer your community on and hope for a cure for your sake, for everyone else’s sake, and for theirs.

c

thanks for the well-wishes on your way out the door

i’m sorry for becoming a chore

it must be so hard for you, that internal war

to not know what to do, more and more

on one hand you don’t want to leave a friend in need

on the second it’d be nice to feel freed

if they hadn’t picked up the knife maybe they wouldn’t bleed

they rejected good health, you’re just taking their lead

of course you believe in unwavering support

you’re all for righteousness when it’s in public court

but it’s taken a toll and you feel out of sorts

but of course that doesn’t change your everlasting support

z

there’s a roadblock at booze creek

a rich blue vein of iron ore

is leaking red from spider-webbed tunnels

that had sat dry since the last dirty trickle came through

in sadder times

there’s a holdup at booze creek

at the crisscross with Dead Ends Road

there isn’t usually water there

but the rubber tunnel drools a slick trickle

and exposes the vein

of the rich iron ore

the tide of sadder times flows

im sorry for the roadblock at booze creek

it had been holding up pretty well

i walked from the dead ends to the main road

til i saw the stream there

the vein pulsed and the sickly stream was too thin to carry the dried leaves

so they just grew damp, and the dirt muddied the water, and the water was no match for the cement.

it’s leaked before and it’ll leak again

and i can pour one out for the drowned

but i caused the roadblock at booze creek

when nobody else was around

it’s drying up now

the opened vein clotted

with old leaves and tufts of weeds

the tide of sadder times ebbs

and until it comes back it will look like to others as if there was never a roadblock at booze creek.

z

Dear God,

I pray to you in whispers

And tired, weary sighs

My days are empty echoes

Of restless, night time cries

But I think on how You do collect

Each tear spilt from my eye

You keep them in a vessel

Because for me, You chose to die

—————————————

You keep track of all my sorrows.

You have collected all my tears in your bottle.

You have recorded each one in your book.

Psalm 56:8

Who or what are we waiting for

A normalcy bias

Or Godot?

There’s ominous signs

Plenty of cognitive dissonance

What are we hesitant about?

Something tangible

Or routine illusion?

Perhaps we suffer the

Impenetrability of ignorance

Can we still blame Godot?

Could it be instigated by the

Intellectual vulgarity of

Copious over analysis?

So many questions

With far too few answers

I guess we’ll just need to

Keep waiting for Godot

she waters dried flowers

and sings out of key

she lives her life backwards

she’s just like me

she paints brown petals pink

and calls them alive

a posy for a dollar

or 3 for only 5

she sleeps from the morning

to well after dusk

she shrivels without sun

a dried brittle husk

she blooms back at night

with soft lamb’s ear sleeves

she gleams in the moonlight

among silhouetted leaves

she’s tired and needs water

she goes back to bed

she’ll take a break from living

while time still moves ahead

cz