because my first memories are steeped in passive threats and outward danger.
because the community and courts criminalized being gay, and my decisions made me an easy target for both.
because “home” was never safe either.
because the environment demanded the worst version of myself.
because hypocrisy was encouraged and rewarded.
because married men with male lovers were ostracized, while married men with female lovers were protected.
because culturally, women were still the property of men, and it entitled them to enact all manner of violence with impunity.
because openly queer relationships were not seen or welcomed in public spaces.
because when people lived authentically, they were treated as disposable.
because the adults in my life weren’t people i identified with or wanted to model.
because there were no heroes or helpers for someone like me.
because she said his Black queer life didn’t matter, and you agreed when i told you.
because “the wrong side of the tracks” was a literal part of town that the affluent white people curated to “keep safe” from the impoverished and disenfranchised. their very own skid row.
because the number of murder-suicides was slowly climbing.
because men threatened to rape me as punishment or “treatment” of my queerness.
because men raped my friends.
because it’s a small town–with all the implications such a reality brings.
because a small murky pond is full of piranhas.
because dying there was the last thing i wanted.
because it would have killed me.
because if it failed, i’d have finished the job myself.
because despite my knowing this was “the way of the world,” as she so aptly called it, i believed in empathy and knew there were others like me.
because i craved living well.
because i knew a place existed for me.
because i wanted to.
About the Creator
kp
I am a non-binary, trans-masc writer. I work to dismantle internalized structures of oppression, such as the gender binary, class, and race. My writing is personal but anecdotally points to a larger political picture of systemic injustice.
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The Bird Nest
Downy tufts puff out, Warmth inside a house of hair, Drowsiness abounds. A/N: I sometimes imagine what it would be like to sleep in a bird nest, provided I can be bird-sized in the fantasy of course. I think it would be cosy! More longer stories to come! -TWW
By ThatWriterWoman4 days ago in Poets
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis3 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
"because i craved living well." ~ we should all be able to live well, without suffering. I left for different reasons and it took a long time to find a bit of peace. I hope you have found some in your life. xx ROCK