On the one hand, stuff like #OwnVoices is super important and a lot of my creative work is driven by the fact that I read a lot as a child and always struggled to find books about people like me and it was incredibly lonely and isolating.
On the other, idk, I think it’s perpetuating this weird culture where author’s lives are available for dissection. And yes, you can refuse to answer questions about it and keep it to yourself, but if you write queer characters or autistic characters or whatever, people will often ask if you belong to that group, even if you haven’t publicly offered the information. And even if you feel comfortable telling people to back off, selling art is hard and often an author’s identity can form part of their brand in order to get a book more attention. Think of how many posts you’ve seen circulating saying “X character by an author who’s X! Support them!” Like, not to be cynical, but that’s marketing. And it puts authors (who often make shit all) in the position of choosing between a private life and being able to live off their art (which can be nigh impossible).
I have always been happy talking about my autism. I have it and it’s concrete and it’s a part of me.
But I have always been uncomfortable talking about my sexuality. I’m queer, but I couldn’t put a name to it beyond that. I often refer to myself as bi for simplicity, but maybe there’s an element of asexuality or aromantism that I have never been able to pin down (possibly because of my autism). And I am so uncomfortable talking about it that if my boyfriend is reading this post, this is probably new information for him (hey, hon).
And yet, when I started to write queer protagonists, I felt this overwhelming pressure to be like “don’t worry! I’m not a straight!”
It felt like this fucking disclaimer.
And I get why the culture is like this. Hell, I have a whole YouTube series that is based around critiquing portrayals of autism in media and I’m not gonna lie and say that the author’s relationship with autism isn’t gonna colour my reviews because the simple fact is that it can’t not.
But the problem is that a side-effect of wanting authors from marginalised identities to write characters who share those identities is a commodification of those identities that leaves a bad taste in my mouth…
i know it’s long but i promise it’s worth the read <3
“someone once told me, your poem doesn’t start until you start telling the truth. so i call this my first poem”.
let me tell you what i learnt about people. no, not people in general, but the hard ones. i don’t mean complicated or troubled, but hard as in tough, in all the wrong places.
when they flash you with a smile like the sun that creeps through your window when you just wake up, you know you should look away because it hurts your eyes, but you look anyways. it shines, in all the rooms in your body that are lacking light.
so when they see you smiling back, they will string a constellation of pretty words along your spine, making you feel like they are the reason you are standing so bright,
and when you put a welcome sign in front of your heart,
that’s when they jaywalk through your chest
even though they have no intentions of staying
yet they will stay long enough for you to hand over your heart, like a piece of gold you’ve been treasuring your whole life,
and carelessly they take it because you are the type of gold they need to experience having-
so even though they know they will hurt you, they place you between their dirty fingers and
tell you something along the lines: “I’ve never felt so rich, like i have everything right here”.
and you want to say
“baby, you have everything, everything i am, right there, in that palm, please be careful”
but instead you kiss them and they kiss you back
and their hands start wandering the map of your body and all you could think of is
travelling never felt so cheap
but you let them,
And their mouth starts eating you up like you are every craving needed to satisfy their taste buds
and you let them,
because this is how you make a man happy. this is how you make a man love you.
and that’s when everything changes.
when they feel every edge that you handed over, when they touch every inch you offered humbly, when they get a good look at everything, your skin and bones and pulse and dust, when they realize how much this is,
how much of an earthquake and storm and tragedy you are,
it shakes them with the realization that the sun sets, and the shine isn’t permanent;
that’s when everything changes.
that is when the pretty words start unraveling like the peal of a tangerine and the void of what they have to offer you back
hits your spine so hard you become one with the pavement and you wonder if you could ever get back up.
and when you realize they have no strength to help you back on your feet, when the fight and courage you thought they had isn’t there, they will leave you after saying something like “i can’t make you happy” and “you will find better than me”.
you will lie there, naked and cold and empty, and cry so hard your eyesight will be so blurry like your windshields don’t work and it’s raining so much but you keep going,
hoping the storm in your eyes would convince them to
come back. come back because if not, i don’t want this storm to ever end, i don’t want to see if you aren’t there to be seen.
you will ask why they did it. why did they come back, begging your love when they had no intention of loving you back. no intention of keeping your gold heart safe,
after using it up, they throw it out like an old pair of jeans, although once a favourite,
and they will say,
“it just didn’t fit anymore”
like that makes all the sense in the world
and they won’t even look you in the eyes,
instead they will get angry that you are hurting.
they will try to settle the aches by telling you how much you meant to them, and how they had to give it another try just because
"it’s you. and it’s you and me”.
they will tell you something along the lines that
it’s not your fault, they just can’t love you, like their heart isn’t capable
and you just want to scream because you can’t understand
how a person can be so selfish that they had to manipulate you into loving them, only so they can experience a person with a heart likes yours, loving them. how they admired your gold so much, they risked shattering it by taking it out of the safest place it can be placed in, knowing their body is a war zone. How their curiosity was more important than your togetherness. You wonder how selfish and hard a person must be to drink you from a shot glass they know they can’t handle, and when they throw you up the day after, how they just walk away without cleaning up the mess,
you wonder how a single moment like this can make you question the significance of your existence.
and that’s when everything changes.
they warn you
“i never lose”
and you realize it was always a game to them.
how they watched you sacrifice and sacrifice and
give and give. how they just watched.
one minute they are holding you in their arms, as the beauty of the moon and the wishes of the stars melt onto their chest, and they are promising you mountains and oceans,
and the next they have you bowing to their toes, as they make you into nothing but the dirt that dirties their bare feet.
that’s when they walk away by walking over you like you are nothing but a spec of their past, something not worthy to be moved forward with. one moment, they want to spend the rest of their life with you, but then, the moment they feel a little bit of fear and insecurity tingling in their throat, they pretend you are choking them and run away. without even having the decency or respect to let you go with kindness. gentleness. dignity.
and this is what i learnt when i learned about people like this:
after all this. after all the pulling and pushing. the grabbing and letting go. the playing and carelessness. The apathy. the taking and taking and taking .
This is what I learnt:
you are not a man because you claim to be one.
when you do not know or recognize the value of a human heart, you should not be going around collecting them, to make up for the lack of yours.
they are not prized possessions.
when you cannot take responsibility for the scars you left on the body you undressed, played with, and then abandoned,
when you constantly look for fault in others to keep your ego untouched,
when your pretty words are nothing but pretty words, keep them. stop spreading them around, making hearts believe you mean them, when the coward in you won’t make actions out of them.
this is what you taught me:
it is easier to spread my legs open with your bare hands, than to spread my skin open with your bare heart.
strength is defined by pride and how many calls you can ignore and how many messages you can dismiss,
instead of picking up that phone, being the first call, the first message to say
to the love that comes back after it was once lost-
this time, her pieces aren’t being picked up. they aren’t being put back together into human form so you can return back to again when it’s convenient for you.
this time, she’s letting her pieces spread like dandelion seeds from wishes she now knows won’t come true but it’s okay-
What if every sentence you wrote turned into a jumbled mess and also you became distracted by the feeling of keys under your fingers, so you just started typing nonsense for repeated stimulation.
Okay, but consider: Why
click clack the keys go smick smack. Sserp.
i try to nap my days away
pulling them to,
how I always
want to be next to you.
every time you
hold my hand,
the bricks lose their weight,
but i start to dream of you,
a daydream where
i don’t believe you’re true,
how I’d give you
all my time
just to be with you.
this ocean current love
im sleepily passing through,
your arms a float,
and im passing out
from the warmth of
your sunshining through.
how I melt in your presence,
but my arrogance
will take a minute or two.
i don’t want to sound cliche,
but i can’t help falling
for you every single day,
a vast expanse
under a thousand stars,
at least a few will fall
to see your beauty, so raw.
you sleep my nights away
next to you, im wide awake.
a dream becomes a memory
where delusions are no fun.
i pour out my soul to you,
when you were sleeping
because im scared of your response,
sarcasm or wit,
love and repair,
ill burn if you speak.
i sleep on rainy days,
every rain droplet,
a piece of my mind,
ive nothing left
you are all that i am,
a lion with a raw beauty inside.
Letter for my Queen CXXXVII. (Happy Sleepy Days.)
When your writings love you for trying, for being yourself, just because you are.
When love grows in your chest, just because your own creations kiss you on your cheek every day, wishing you good luck getting that dream done so that they maybe will be out there some day. But that it really doesn`t matter for you are loved, and you do this for your own sake, even though you do not know that yet.
London, in the early 1900′s. Lady Morgana Pendragon is the highly controversial daughter of the Conservative leader
The Rt Hon. Sir Uther Pendragon, MP. It has been widely speculated by the tabloids that the Lady Morgana is secretly funding the suffragettes movement. It would seem where the Lady Morgana would go she would attract attention from her bold fashion reflecting her general demeanour to her choice of “companion” with the young Miss Guinevere Leodegrance, a once servant to the Pendragons, now with the help of the Lady Morgana a sensation in London’s affluent music scene.
On the other side of the Spectrum the working class are rising in the form of the Labour party, the leader is rumoured to be the opposition’s own wayward son,
The Rt Hon. Arthur Pendragon, MP. who gave up his titles after his rebellion. Mister Pendragon is often criticised for the position due to his privileged upbringing, most publicly by a certain reporter by the name of Mister Merlin Emrys. Mister Emrys is The Guardian’s most favoured reporter, whose wish with the help of his undercover colleague Miss Mithian Nemeth it is to expose the Lady Morgana’s affair with Miss Guinevere, in the hope to use the scandal to bring upon an uprising against the Aristocracy for a modern Britain.
one of my favorite things about yoi is how yuuri slowly becomes more tactile with victor. at first it’s only victor who initiates contact between them, but as the series progresses we get to see yuuri becoming freer with his touches, less reserved. i hope he continues gaining confidence in this way so that somewhere down the line he’ll be the one who reaches for victor’s hand. he’ll be the one who slings his arm around victor’s shoulders, who’ll use him as a pillow and lean against him, who’ll wash his back and brush his hair and pull him into spontaneous bone-crushing hugs.