Please Don’t Take Your Pets For Granted. Even If You’re Frustrated That Your Dog Has Been Barking

— natalie díaz, from “american arithmetic”, postcolonial love poem (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

#203

It just kept haunting.

Vying for a steely, totalitarian grasp on my thoughts,

Snatching with it’s thick greedy fingers at fragments of tranquility,

Lurking in every shadowed alleyway of my subconscious.

I eventually concluded that I needed to settle this with a confrontation.

The next time it tried to influence my thinking, I asked,

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

It rung it's hands for a moment, silent.

The first time, it replied “To change you.”

I tried to talk into it every attack.

It grew more anxious every time I asked, as if no one took the time to confer with it.

Its answers became more telling

“So you will suffer for what you've done.”

“You need to remember what a miserable creature you are.”

“I will not leave your side. I am what you deserve.”

It is extremely insistent.

But I know it will not retain this power forever.

I will continue to note its arrival.

Someday, I hope that it will be a fleeting, inconsequential specter.

But today isn’t someday I suppose.

We all live with demons.

Sadly, this isn’t the first or last.

# 31

My chest feels like a big red balloon.

Switching between over-swelled, Bulging, Tight.

To deflated and limp.

Again and again and again.

In. Out. In. Out.

The breaths come faster.

The balloons limitations heighten, only so much air can pass through at a time.

I grasp at the stings that dangle from my shirt. Who is sending all this so fast?

They need to slow down.

But I don't hate it and I can't stop it.

In. Out. In. Out.

The strings are wrapped three times around my wrists.

When did I do that?

In out. In out. In out.

The air is whooshing over and over.

I can’t-

Inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutin

I force myself to focus on the softness of my sweater buttoned around my taut chest.

I fold my hands and feel the roughness of my palms, the smoothness of my nails, the surety of my string around my finger.

I focus on the lights above me and count the tiles on the ceiling.

The balloon miraculous slows a bit and I can feel my head again.

In out. In out. In out.

It didn't float away.

I didn't fly away on an overwhelming air currant.

I am still here.

I plant my feet in the ground and feel fresh roots make a home below me, anchoring me to reality, to the world.

The air gets slower and slower until I feel flowers bloom between my toes.

Until I feel the strength return me to a slow and steady flow of air in and out of my lungs.

In. Out. In. Out.

Yet another comic about leaving the Mormon church that can be applied to a variety of things.

Scattered poertry from my scattered brain (is this anything? idk)

🇵🇸🍉 Free Palestine 🍉🇵🇸

To try to do anything in this day and age is courageous. Even if you suck at least you’re fucking doing something. You’re creating something. You are doing SOMETHING. That in itself is a courageous act.

My Missing Wedding Ring Finger – A bittersweet comic about queer identity as exorcism.

cw: implied violence, comphet.

how am i meant to show my love when i peel an orange but need a shovel to give you a slice