So we know for truth that historical Heathens were hella queer, and we can broadly say that their conceptions of sex and gender were comparable to those of pagan Greece and Rome (ubiquitous bisexuality, stigma against submissive men, nobody cares about lesbians because patriarchy, strong gender binary but a long tradition of accepted nonconformity, et cetera) but it REALLY annoys me that their court literature was so exclusively martial and mythological because I would SO be here for Viking Catullus and Viking Sapho.
My sexuality comes with a label
that at least one of you
has never even heard.
It comes with shitty Peter Pan jokes
and uncomfortable misunderstandings.
My sexuality comes with a helping
of skepticism I never asked for but
I would take all of that
over the way people
from my own community
treat it like a
There was a girl I used to kiss who
would to get drunk and
try to convince me
I was a lesbian.
She would ask pointed questions
about the men I’ve loved and
the men I’ve hated.
When I let slip that
the first time I slept with a woman
was something on the verge
of religious, she treated it
in the case she was building against me.
Like I had to be proven wrong
in order to be deemed worthy.
On a first date, I have watched women
treat old lovers like horror stories, like
being left for a man was somehow so much worse
than being left for a woman. Like
infidelity wore a name tag and
only came in the shape of the ones
who “couldn’t pick a side.”
They all looked at me with these crooked grins.
They had no idea who they were talking to.
In a club, over the boom of the music,
she asks, "you’re a lesbian, right?“
and all I say is yes.
Because I want to dance with a beautiful girl,
because I don’t want to have to shout to explain,
because I don’t want the truth to be the wrong answer.
When she presses me against the brick and
kisses me senseless, I wonder
if she’d call me a liar
if we met in the light of day.
He says, “I don’t have a problem with gay people,
but bisexuals are just greedy.”
He says, “I don’t think bisexuality
really exists.” He says,
“You made out with a girl once, right?
Did you like it?”
She says, “I only date Gold Star Lesbians.
I don’t want to be anywhere a penis
She doesn’t seem to care how
fucking transphobic she sounds
or that this makes her no better
than the straight men who talk about women
in terms of “going where someone else has been”
like we are used strips of tarmac.
My sexuality gets talked about like it’s
a gateway drug you grow out of
on your way to being declared 100% Gay
or a calling card of the wayward little
straight girl looking for attention. Listen.
I have never kissed a woman for any other reason
than because I desperately wanted to
and if men looked at us
that was their business
I am not here to be the butt of your punchline,
your queer college girlfriend, your science experiment,
the one you “turned gay” or “turned straight”–
my sexuality has nothing to do with you.
It is one of the few things I have
that truly belongs to me
and it’s disgusting that the people
who should know better
still treat it like a novelty.
“PANSEXUALS” AND OTHER CREATURES OF QUEER MYTHOLOGY by Ashe Vernon
I meant to hurt you. Maybe. After all, I knew what I was doing when I kissed her, and I warned you in advance that I break hearts like disciples break bread; I do it as often as I pray. I told you I was heartless, but I should have said “healing,” because so many skin grafts cover my burnt heart that I no longer know who it’s made of.
I’m broken. I’ve got too much baggage to carry and a vinyl record, smudged with her fingertips, that skips over the same song: Venice. Venice. Venice. The last place I loved her. Her sweater still hangs in my closet, red with day-old anger, the collar still smelling like her cologne.
Every book that’s ever reminded me of her sits on my bookshelf, cover facing out, because I can’t bear to see another broken spine, and when I trace my collarbone in the mirror, I swear I can still see her lipstick stains.
It’s been three years, but my favorite thing about you is that you sound like her when you laugh: And when she invited me into her bedroom four weeks ago, I shouldn’t have gone, but I tasted Italy in the air when I said her name, and needed to know if the streets of Venice were as crystal blue as I recalled.
I told myself that I wouldn’t tell you what I told her that night; I whispered directions across her naked back and begged her to run away with me to Olympos and play god. When she laughed, she sounded like you, and I knew she would never come. But I returned to her once, twice, three times, and prayed to gods with names like planets that she would follow me, or that I would find another muse. All the while you asked me to write for you and I couldn’t.
When she stopped calling again, like she did after Venice, I told myself to snap heartbreak into two syllables and bury it in poetry so that I would stop singing her name in my sleep. Instead, I confessed to loving Venus just to watch your face fall: I was so lonely at the bottom before you joined me.
I am the jackrabbit faggot darning
a loose fit boyhood I’ve become
there’s so many things I’m not strong enough
to write poems about,
so here’s my skeleton attempt to ratify
seventeen years of a life lived dirty –
see, there is no world where I possess myself,
where I feel this skin belonging to me,
where my body is a safe place to hide.
The truth is – I am a flesh and blood broken home
soft in all places left aching,
and hard right where softness
matters most – but nobody can run
from their breast and bone,
we can only hold it in, bind and break ourselves
in hopes that it’s enough.
So just take me back to my boyhood,
take me to my seven-year-old self
watch this prince in a pretty dress spinning
and tell me how he is still a prince.
I confess, darling thief, about watching
the boy with the popsicle
and holding the boy on the trampoline
and I confess, again, to my boyhood – I own it now.
So take me back to the doorway
because I need to believe
in the honey at the heart of this;
and take me back to the lake – I confess,
I never should have gone swimming
with all those stones in my pockets
(but you should never have done
all the things you did either,
so I guess we’re even).
And fuck, I’m tongue tied in the confessional again,
why are the little truths always hardest
to ply from my throat?
Why does the world only stretch so far as my fingertips
when it rains?
Why am I dying? Why is it beautiful?
And why, darling thief, are you here at all?
Do you know the heart
of a boy torn from his boyhood?
Could you ever know the ache that comes
with stolen time?
Live the livery of a childhood that was never yours to define?
Of course not –
you, after all, have always been the monarch
of my missing pieces,
thief at the centre of this thawed-out hunk of heart
on a slab.
So to all like me, all but you, my advice is this:
be the runaway and
kiss the boy and
fill the vacancy and
dance the rainstorm and
love lucid, love lunatic,
love masses more than is necessary.
back in paris and this isn’t even the first bar she stopped at. the girl in the corner is cute and smiling and willing. but there’s too much smoke, she has to rub her eyes and lands looking at someone, someone that she shouldn’t remember because centuries have come and gone since she has even looked in her direction, centuries since the sun came up and she was still there. maybe it is centuries ago, maybe she finally started seeing things because that’s not hera, because that can’t be hera. she’s a goddess, she can’t be cursed so how did she end up being doomed loving the one who can’t love. the internal pleas begin, the “please come this way, please don’t let me be the one who gets up again, please don’t let me the drunken mess on her knees, at the altair of a godless woman.” she will do it, she always does. she is the one who willingly goes and gets broken. who then endures the hearts of meaningless lovers with eyes never as dark brown, with touches never as tender, with kisses never as soft. and she grabs the glass, ready to down it, but around her hand wraps another. behind her, leaning on, whispering. maybe this time, she came. maybe this time, she stays.
hunters of artemis: if you reject men you will receive immortality
lesbians, bisexuals, aces, and aros: sign me the FUCK up 👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌th 👌 ere👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my selｆ 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠＯOOＯOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit
Her lips taste like cinnamon
And nutmeg and hope, and she’s
All angry music and soft eyes
And maybe they’ll turn you to
Stone if you look too long, but
You’re not sure you’ve actually ever
Been anything else, and anyways,
You feel more alive with her arms
Around you than you ever did before.
This person was not defined perisex perized heterosexual heteroromantic cisgender. Only one of these words had been coined, back then. The word most often used for this person was “Straight.”
And there is a myth that has sprung up in our communities, that this person was defined by us.
This person was defined by those copies of this person who called us queer in private and then recoiled from the word on our lips as we marched side by side through the streets. This person was defined by the copies of this person who reassured themselves that they were not the same as us. This person, this archetype, was defined by the fact that it needed no definition. A “person” was this person, and anyone else was something else indeed.
Our communities were wider, back then, for better or for worse. This person, by archetype, had not been hurt by the same forces we had, but those forces hurt many more than those we now recognize as our own.
When you perform intimate relations against the grain of society, you are hurt by these forces. When you marry yourself to a man and a woman who are married to each other, all of you are hurt. When you are seen as a man one day and as a woman another, you are hurt regardless of which one would be accepted and regardless of which one (if either) is true.
A description of this person, in details this person would see as obvious:
This person asked women for a certain kind of dates, as a man, and accepted those dates, as a woman; propositioned women for a certain kind of sex, as a man, and accepted that sex, as a woman. Eventually this person married another copy of this person in an inverse role and raised some number of children. Which role this person would occupy was decided definitively at this person’s birth by a doctor or other authority, and this person would never question that decision beyond perhaps a passing whimsy.
Reading between the lines, this person was not transgender, was not intersex, was not kinky, was not celibate, was not polyamorous, and dated people of the approved gender and the approved gender only.
Reading between the lines, this person was not asexual, and this person was not aromantic.
I am young, but here is what I know:
This person still exists, right now. This person still needs no definition, as every part of this person’s identity is still assumed. And this archetype distinct from its copies is our enemy as it always was, for it is what defines the false assumptions under which we are forced to survive.
I’m genuinely the worst person to date ever because I show affection by being kind of snarky and I have a crippling fear of intimacy, but I try and make up for it by providing genuinely astonishing facts about mythology and queer British monarchs.