grief was the way out of my mother’s head. grief was a little berry-soaked hill in my backyard. grief was a heavyfoot early, emptied out. the silent morning the inside of grief’s scraped-out cardboard place to live. well, i don’t know, it seems stupid to say live around grief. well, i don’t know, it seems grief’s firmly in the domain of the living. dry soda can we kick down the street kicking and kicking miles and miles and couldn’t tell you why. think my grief is housing me. think my grief isn’t going to get me out of no one’s head at all. think grief is a little berry-soaked hill in my backyard. think grief is creeping round like i don’t stay here all day all night making no sound padding creeping. my out-of-words mouth. think grief might be trying to be a good girl. think grief might be killing me. think my leg’s sore. think i gotta figure out how to stop kicking.
“hmm. I have never been to an olive garden before.”
unlimited super salad.
hmm.
unlimited super salad.
god evening sir my name is benny ill be your wai*
Optimus? I thought you were dead.
benny?
…
you have to let me go, benny.
the crash was 4 years ago.
it wasn’t your fault.
Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
i thought, for a long time, that i had to keep my passions private.
he didn’t like the poetry. it would fly around in the bedroom with us. little words like gnats; all caught up in a smokescreen. i was used to this kind of thing - i would only enjoy my own writing with a flinch. i would apologize. i know, there’s nothing real about an internet poet.
my friends didn’t like to read anything i liked. they didn’t like my music. they didn’t like the way i sang or how i laughed or how i’d dress. i told myself this is normal - we all have different passions, after all. one thing is sweet to me, too-sour to another.
i didn’t know. i thought friends were just mean sometimes, and you couldn’t expect them to be excited. i thought love happened only half in the sunlight. shy about anything i liked. for a long time the people i met all loved the word “myopic”. they refused to do anything without promising it was ironic.
i didn’t know. it seemed easier, you know? to just hide all of it. it felt pathetic, begging people please just watch this. please read this. please try this. you’ll like it, i know it.
my sister bought me house plants for the holiday. she doesn’t keep them, she just knows i like them. my friend recently collected a list of 50 books with lgbt+ characters in them, ones where nobody dies in the end. she says she keeps an eye out for them, because i mentioned once i’d been looking to expand my list. the other day my roommate made me fish tacos even though he hates fish - he said i know you’re having a hard day, and these are one of your favorites.
people don’t have to “get it”. but the good ones will try, anyway. the good ones will get excited with you. they buy you the concert tickets even though they don’t know any of the music. they know all the actors of the show even though they don’t have time to watch it. they ask you questions about the game even though they’ve never even seen the loading screen. they are happy that you are happy, and enjoying something harmlessly. they are just proud you are trying. particularly something creative - it is a dark world. to make something is powerful, and should be celebrated.
she holds my hand. she knows literally nothing about dnd, but lets me chatter about my new campaign for literally three hours, endlessly. in return, she and i discuss this anatomy book she’s reading. i don’t know half the words but i love that she finds it exciting. life in the sun like - oh, this is flying.
