A Not-so-little Secret About Me?

A not-so-little secret about me?

I wrestle with apathy and dissociation more often than I'd like to admit. Some days, it’s like I’m watching life through fogged glass, barely present, barely real—but still feeling something. And when I can’t speak that something out loud (which is often), I write. Words become my pulse, the soft way I cry without sound.

Sometimes those feelings come out in tears, sometimes in longing, sometimes in these strange, tender aches I can’t fully name. Maybe it’s the estrogen making me soft and weepy. Maybe it’s the autism making it hard to explain why I care so deeply while seeming like I don’t care at all. Maybe it’s just being a transfem lesbian in a world that doesn't quite know what to do with our kind of magic.

But every time I sit down and spill my sapphic, yearning, overly poetic nonsense into a post, it’s like I’m whispering a little love letter into the void—and hoping someone soft and gentle hears it. Maybe a girl with kind hands and a teasing smile, someone who’ll read my words and want to tuck a stray hair behind my ear while telling me I’m precious, even when I don’t believe it myself.

This is my poetry. These silly, emotional, queer-laced words I scatter online like flower petals. And if you're here, reading them? Thank you. Truly. I hope you feel them the way I meant them. I hope they wrap around you like a warm hug you didn’t know you needed.

And maybe, just maybe, I hope someone sees the girl behind the words—and wants to hold her for a while.