Production Break

The girl reached up towards you, her hand shaking. She sees you walking away,

blurring at the edges

just out of sight and the

screams of her telling you to come back, not wanting

you to get hurt by people who don’t understand

language is a precious gift to keep memory

sleep under the stars as children

holding close a lullaby.

stay close in the dark, where

things are not danger and she does not have

nightmares of you on the ground and bleeding the love away.

History there, too much history, you in her shadow

so many times to keep her safe at school

blurring at the edges, just out of sight and memory long after they

tease her for trying to hide.

Native voices keep memory and bring it back to a

place that does not remember you because of the distortion.

“You do not belong,” they say to her when

they see she loves a girl but she loves that girl

because she doesn’t look like you

The way you are separated by a gulf that is not able to

be crossed. You remind her of the time you slept under the stars

as children and heard bad humans on the radio as they were going

to drive you into the stars and apart from love.

To all who thought themselves impossible to love.

Comments

Too Much Crying

Everything used to be big when I was small, or maybe it was just that it was the same size and I was shorter. Sometimes I have vague memories of a hallway that I no longer know, each step tall enough that I had to lift my leg high up to my waist to climb up them. There was someone waiting at the top for me, a nondescript figure in brown heels. The ones that look like they have a T going across them. With each step that I take up the stairs, her mouth moves. I can’t comprehend that she is talking to me. Colorful paint has been put on all of my fingers by a tall lady, who probably isn’t that old but she’s so much taller than me that I can’t see the top of her. Taller than the highest tower that I can build out of blocks, taller than me until they go falling down. It was hard work to build that tower of blocks, and I cried when they fell down. I didn’t like seeing my tower fall down. Just like when the tall lady puts the paint on my hand, I start to cry because it is cold. I do...

Meow, Meow.

Here’s a silly little post about the cat that’s been wandering around my neighborhood lately. He’s pretty friendly! One of my friends commented that my messages read like poetry, so I turned the text into a poem. [originally posted on Instagram.] 💞 There was cat yesterday. The cat likes me. He was following me back to my house. This is not my cat. It is my neighbor’s cat. I cannot catnap a cat. I still don’t know the cat’s name, so I’m calling him Kitty Cat. His ears twitch when he hears me talking. The cat distribution system cannot be denied.

Fourth Wing: A Review

It's been a while since Fourth Wing took BookTok by storm, catapulting itself to the top of people's TBR lists with promises of dragons, and sass, and sassy dragons. The avid chatter caught my attention, but I held off on reading the book for precisely that reason. With opinions clamoring for your focus, skewing your independent perspective with their own, it was impossible to tell if the book deserved the praise that it was being handed. So, I waited... and waited... and waited some more. I readily admit that, upon buying the book from a wholesale club, I finished Fourth Wing in two or three days. With that being said, there were a few fairly large snags in the plot which disrupted my sense of disbelief. When a character is written specifically for a trope, they can be difficult. Xaden knows that he is unlikeable- not just from Violet's perspective, but by the quadrant as a whole- and uses it to his advantage when his life becomes entwined with the daughter of his father...

The Pen and Book Files

Search This Blog