HAZY HEAT

 have a little fun, care a little less. learn a thing or two. be nice to yourself. 

I am looking at a picture of you that makes me want to read a poem. You are a face framed in magnolia blossoms, staring reverently out at not-sure-what like it is a vast ocean. I google queer love poems  and then queer happiness poems  and then best love poems of all time.  You are none of these things, you are all of them. The door that safe-havens us, knocked by time or misfortune or legislation, will not budge from behind. Feet side-by-side, hands finger-laced, sturdy and malleable brick. This picture will hang on the walls of my soul; our hearts more ancient than written word. You are always the poem.

As the summer has started to unfold, I have not been very nice to myself. That 5:00 pm golden hour hits and I wonder why I feel anxious, hollow, and weak. Could it have anything to do with a day spent drinking four cups of coffee with zero water, forgetting to eat, and doom scrolling on the internet instead of going for a walk? Well, it actually has everything to do with those things. Are you surprised? Me neither. I am no more resilient than the plants in my house - I am an organic being. We are organic beings who need to be tended. I can churn up as many melodramatic reasons as I want about why my soul suffers on the sunniest days or why the world seems to be moving around me at a pace I could never match. But when all is said and done, if you're not giving yourself your basics, not much beauty will be able to grow.   Two days ago, while unable to sleep, I was struck with the urge to write this in my notes app: "Every day the realization becomes clearer that I can be anythin

Being a human is a unique and brutal experience. It is beautiful in that it is so singular; there is respectively nothing else like it, us, or you, in the universe. But planning a future feels more and more like walking into a fire. We have so much at stake, but we have somehow found a way to lay our odds in the hands of people who operate only on self-interest and control. I recently read that hope is a discipline, not a feeling, and I believe that. I am also not a discipled person, hence my attempt at last month's NaPoWriMo (some may call it a failure, but I call it a reminder that I love writing and hate structured activities with deadlines). I wish I was the type of person who sought instead of retreated when the world seems as though it's burning. There are a lot of people like that in my community, and the hope they provide people truly makes the world a better place. Hope has never been my strong suit, and I feel too small to save the world. Sometimes all I can muster is

hot skin, pressure peaks above the surface, silver needles in my chest as familiar as a smell — why do you visit if you do not care? I sit on the counter, look down from the mountain, search for a relief that might save me