from a forthcoming short story on newhive i’m working on
portrait of the artist in twoo wub @bbinacorner.tumblr.com/
i am the cutest, i think
help i’m trying to figure out new hive
i can tell when you look at me don’t look at me ever please
god help me.
i’m on twitter and i’m mad
and this baby goes from ‘lookin cute’ to ‘ughhhnnnnff’ in under thirty seconds
four of my poems are up on EOAGH. they’re about my ass and batman mostly
An Open Letter to Those Who Only Consider My Struggle When Put in Terms of My Personal Trauma
Shame is passed down like the priest who told you the Divine Liturgy was passed (traditio, to hand down) to him. It is out there, in the world. All the thin white cis women. Currency and consumer. Yours is out there in the world. Maybe it’s the same, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s shame over not fucking the thin white cis women or shame over fucking the thin white cis women. Maybe it’s something else. There are conditions that at once produce the trauma and obfuscate the trauma. I am tired of confessing. I am tired of reifying struggle to truth (my truth, they tell me).
I am tired of giving when mostly I want to destroy the destruction handed down to me through the years.
I have an essay-like-thing up on Human Parts at medium about shame and identity based forms of labor and narrative and confession and lots of lil stuff.
tw: street harassment, slurs