The Strength I plan

I have made a commitment, 

And I’m unsure I can do it. 

This is high school, again.

This is a speech.

There’s nothing I more intensely


Than to stand 


(What do I do with my hands? 

Is it hot in here, or what!)

Defending my side of this debate. 

You are a crowd

Staring into my uncertainty 

I feel the rock in my throat,

Dusty and dry.

I must speak up for myself


“Keep away from me. I am through with you.”


Out in the open

What’s much worse than confirming that some family friends who disowned someone for being gay already will never feel quite the same about me again–

As if some imagined “former version” of myself was somehow a better person, purely via my omissions–

Is still so often feeling that pang of a lack of full acceptance into LGBTQ+ spaces.

Of course, don’t get me wrong: for every bad experience, there have been plenty of other instances of feeling like a person or a group of essential-strangers was all of the warmth I’d been missing in my life for a night, a day, a weekend…

The pessimist in me still sometimes lingers on–

A girl changing my whole life, then telling me this life is going to send me to Hell

And every moment since, in which rejection in any capacity 

Still feels a Hell of a lot like–


I am furious 

With whom? I don’t know.

I’ve made regrettable choices.

I’ve been had,

Both literally and figuratively. 
I can’t be a side chick anymore.

Thinking about letting go of McDoogle is painful, which is exactly why I should do it. I won’t be less invested in a month. Now is the time.

Nostalgia is a lying cunt

Nostalgia has a way of making me miss the bookshelf in our living room on Goodwin Avenue, books and trinkets consolidated. The way the cats would fight, our cheap decor, shopping for more cheap decor we still struggled to afford. It even makes me miss the hot attic we fled to the first night we heard gunshots– as we sat on the side porch and smoked cigarettes, before deciding cigarettes were to only-and-always be smoked in the attic when it was dark.

I guess it still felt a little more like freedom– for a month or two.


Opened up WordPress to lay out some kinda bullshit intense feelings– the kind one can only feel when they’re reunited with their best friend whose mom is about to get married tomorrow, probably.

Instead, I read a story about farts. I couldn’t be any happier, honestly.

The anticipation, the nerves, the happiness, and the toots make everything right in the world again.