To be alive is to mourn. Beds where we once rested our heads, people we once rested beside, animals we’ve loved, family we’ve lost, our bodies. We mourn what has been, what can never be again, hopes dashed, love soured, spring flowers that cannot last. Some days I mourn my 20 year-old knees, my grandmother’s ability to drive a car after dark, cities where young love dripped from me, my child-feet standing on my father’s surfboard, his head still full of hair. Memory, a sweet grief, exquisite and excruciating. There are people who criticize me for posting images like this one on the internet. What I’d like to tell them is that I am mourning my tits which will not always stand perky, upright, like this. I’m mourning the queer youth I didn’t have. I’m mourning a fading dream of nursing babies. A window closing. Another day’s sun setting. I am in mourning for my life. I want to remember. I am but a body and a heart with some words. I want to remember what is. I’m sitting around a kitchen table in Los Angeles. The very kitchen where this photograph was taken. I’m talking to two friends from different eras of my life, each having had a profound impact on me. Two friends I met on different coasts for whom I am the connective tissue. They now have a friendship all their own. There is little I love more than being this glue. Two friends who now live under one roof and co-parent a dog named Elvis. Tonight I find myself with them. A night which could not have been planned. Exactly the way I like it. Travel dates changed. Here I am. Adam sets the dinner table for three. (Swipe —> to keep reading or continue in comments) . . 📸 @adamcolemandp . . . #writer #grief #longlovemomo #love #queerwriters #wordporn #animals #lovinganimals #mourning #heartexplosion #cats #catsofinstagram #queer #queerpoet #queerpoetry #family #friendship
To be alive is to mourn. Beds where we once rested our heads, people we once rested beside, animals we’ve loved, family we’ve lost, our bodies. We mourn what has been, what can never be again, hopes dashed, love soured, spring flowers that cannot last. Some days I mourn my 20 year-old knees, my grandmother’s ability to drive a car after dark, cities where young love dripped from me, my child-feet standing on my father’s surfboard, his head still full of hair. Memory, a sweet grief, exquisite and excruciating. There are people who criticize me for posting images like this one on the internet. What I’d like to tell them is that I am mourning my tits which will not always stand perky, upright, like this. I’m mourning the queer youth I didn’t have. I’m mourning a fading dream of nursing babies. A window closing. Another day’s sun setting. I am in mourning for my life. I want to remember. I am but a body and a heart with some words. I want to remember what is. I’m sitting around a kitchen table in Los Angeles. The very kitchen where this photograph was taken. I’m talking to two friends from different eras of my life, each having had a profound impact on me. Two friends I met on different coasts for whom I am the connective tissue. They now have a friendship all their own. There is little I love more than being this glue. Two friends who now live under one roof and co-parent a dog named Elvis. Tonight I find myself with them. A night which could not have been planned. Exactly the way I like it. Travel dates changed. Here I am. Adam sets the dinner table for three. (Swipe —> to keep reading or continue in comments) . . 📸 @adamcolemandp . . . #writer #grief #longlovemomo #love #queerwriters #wordporn #animals #lovinganimals #mourning #heartexplosion #cats #catsofinstagram #queer #queerpoet #queerpoetry #family #friendship
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
On a Wednesday morning, I’m cleaning an Airbnb for cash. Texas is hot. Severe heat warnings hot. Film work is slow. The thought of a 12 hour day in 110 degree heat is unthinkable. I’m cleaning for cash. . . In this lull, I find myself with coveted time to write. Yet here I am. With time. And mostly I sweat and stare at walls. Too much to say. Nothing to say. I sit at my desk. Nothing. Except now. Except here where I am supposed to be cleaning. I stop the vacuum to write this down. Perhaps my art is derived from having to squeeze it in on the sidelines. The only flow I’ve ever known. I’ve been writing into my phone in bathroom stalls while on the job for as long as I’ve been grown. Maybe I don’t know what to do with time except rest. Maybe that’s what’s needed. . . I’m looking at my phone, at a picture taken from space. Bolts of light across my screen, all containing different galaxies. I am struck by how delightfully tiny we are. Our world is burning. Flames of grief and rage. Our sweet dying planet. It’s bickering people. We haven’t slept right since Roe v. Wade. I can’t bring myself to put on clothes, tape an audition for “officer number four” or a character only referred to as “mom”. I’ll be paying off the school loans that bought my BFA until I’m dead. Smiling and holding my hands up to the camera to make sure they are fit to hold a can of hard kombucha in a close up is not the acting career I’d imagined when I was studying Shakespeare. No hard feelings. I’d rather clean a house than be a prop that sells one more thing we don’t need. . . I pray I am finished allowing the industry to determine my personal and artistic worth. . . $100. I take the dog with me to condo to the start the laundry, change the sheets. I sing a song about how it’s “take your pup to work day”. I’m stripping a bed. She’s bored. She’d rather I was throwing a ball. I tell her, “I gotta pay the bills — you’re a dog so you don’t know about that.” A sigh. She lays down. . . (Cont —>) . 📷@adamcolemandp . Filmmaker mentioned: @dayday.studio . . #wordporn #poetry #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #queer #queerwriters
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
Tail lights of Pride. This one fell out tonight. Feels too soon to let the one month of the year that we are celebrated* go. commercial/capitalist pride feels like an especially false store front pedaling snake oil equality rn. But I have never loved my queer family more than I do right now. I’ve been trying to intelligently articulate feelings of rage, heartbreak, being stripped of body autonomy all week but I guess my Aquarius rising took over in a poem. Aries 🌚 Very queer of me to say, I know. Plus ever since I bought this t-shirt, the queers have spoken and decided it’s gonna be the title of my poetry book. Anyway, here’s a poem. . . tonight I shaved my bush off for no reason other than to have one singular thing in my life that feels smooth . and to create the illusion of something I can control about my pussy . and now, I feel like an infant most times but especially now screaming and like the only thing that might shut me up would be a pair of tits in my mouth . I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt because it felt necessary because It felt relevant because it felt holy to broadcast this information . both that I am a dyke despite the signals one might think they’re getting by looking only* at the length of my hair and never at the length of my nails . and because I needed to feel louder prouder firmer butch-er some thing that I don’t often feel recognized for in public when I’m alone . I wear it like a badge of honor I wear it like it’s the badge I won with blood I wear it like I won the lottery because I did Yes. And. Because. queer is what taught me how to truly love like looking down the barrel of it someone once said like heartbeats to call home . so I bought it cuz it felt pertinent to glow for people to know I am in fact a dyke have felt a brand of love they may never know and because I am in fact a killer as in, I’m not taking. no shit. no more. . as in, take your backwards fascist sexist misogynist racist transphobic homophobic half step come ons and set backs and put downs and swipe lefts and dick pics and quotas and bibles and fox juice and shove it up your hole. . check please. I gotta go. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
