pometome

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i ended up liking how gendered french is solely because i can say that i want people to use he/him pronouns for me the same way they use it for angels, blood and blunts

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Oliver Herford, “I Heard a Bird Sing”

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Joy Harjo, Perhaps the World Ends Here

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It’s weird to grow up in a family where you know you’re loved but you don’t feel loved. And then later in adulthood you understand how almost impossible it seems to cross that distance and let yourself experience closeness, how otherworldly love feels now and how love feels unbearable at times. You flinch when someone tries to wholeheartedly love you. And over and over you see so clearly how you cannot be loved unless it's from afar and love is mixed with that familiar sensation of distance and coldness.

[pometome]

Looking for someone to help take the weight of the world off my shoulders

A Hercules to take my burden for a short while so that I may breathe

Just for a second.

In return, I promise to be Atlas

I'll take it back from you in the end

You wouldn't even have to trick me into it, I couldn't bear to let you suffer as I have.

I need someone to remind me not to pick up everyone else's burdens and carry them as my own

Or that if I must try to carry them

that when I inevitably buckle under the weight it is not some grave personal fault

That I am simply mortal.

Instead I find myself Sisyphus, doomed

To push uphill to get my shit together and just as it all starts to make sense again

To watch as it

                          All

                               Falls

                                        Apart

Forced to descend my hill

Gather my pieces and

                    Again

           Over

Do it

All Fall Down - November/December 2021

#original poetry #poetry #spilled ink #greek myths #greek mythology

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"Asteroid," poem assembled from quotations from Wikipedia articles

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Comfort Food, Ellen Van Neerven.

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born a lesbian, raised Catholic

[TERFS/transphobes dni]

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oh.....

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St Teresa once said that You have no hands on earth but ours, ours are the eyes with which You look compassionately upon the world, ours the feet with which You walk to do good works.

So now Lord, help me to put this to action in service of the most downtrodden of my siblings.

Guide my hands as Your hands that I may work however I may be needed.

Guide my eyes as Your eyes to see where compassion is needed and how I may help foster it in others.

Guide my feet as Your feet so that I may be present where I would be of most help.

Lord, I do not need serenity, at least not in the traditional sense - I have accepted the way things are for far too long.

Grant me instead the serenity to listen to the needs of my siblings and centre their needs instead of my own.

Grant me the courage and ambition to change all that I can.

Grant me the wisdom to understand when my actions hinder instead of help.

Make me not only a channel of Your peace, Lord, but of righteous anger at the injustices of the world,

Grant that I may seek to console the injured and to put right the wrongs of the world

In your name,

Amen

An ally's prayer

#christian stuff #ally #queer christian #prayer #poetry? #what is prayer if not devotional poetry?

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1. Mary Oliver | 2. Katherine Mansfield

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This week I have been disorganised

Scatterbrained and ditsy, constantly running late.

This my mother takes to be me acting childish

And so imposes once again the chafing confines of childhood.

A stream of remarks follow

Gentle (but firm) advice that comes from a place of love

Yet only serves as cutting reminders of how I am not good enough

How I must work harder to be a better daughter

To be the proof that they aren't bad parents, that they can raise one that isn't a failure, promise.

Now I chide myself for being overly sensitive

That my parents' good opinion of me should not be tied so intrinsically to my self-worth

But how do you undo a knot you didn't even notice you were tying?

Like a knot in rigging, made of old and fraying rope, watered with frustrated tears

I will rub my fingers raw before it even starts to loosen

By which time, I'll have made the whole thing worse.

#poetry #original poetry #spilled ink #parents mention

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Dalton Day, from Flood-Letting

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green’s my colour.

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I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades at night when light is fading

- Fair, The Amazing Devil

It's the middle of the night and we're doing the washing up,

You're in the sink, I'm drying.

We're giddy off the film we just watched, discussing it in hushed voices so we don't wake anyone else in the house.

I go to put away a plate and when I turn around

There's your back, your elegantly sloping neck, the short hairs on the back of your head that I ache to run my fingers through.

I fight the urge to wrap my arms around your waist from behind, place a gentle kiss on your neck, rest my head on your shoulder.

Can you imagine if we were lovers? If we lived this way all the time?

Big jumpers with sleeves rolled up and a cat by the window and the gentle quiet of an old house resting for the night.

Perhaps it's wise not to play pretend now.

And yet I find myself wishing

"Oh, darling please be mine."

#poetry #love poem #queer poetry #lesbian poetry #longing #unrequited love #poesia #poesie #spilled ink

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Muéstrame por favor

Muéstrame una manera de amarte bien

¿Cómo puedo demostrarte la fuerza de mi amor sin romper tu equilibrio fragil?

¿Cómo puedo tocar tu piel sin quemarte con mis intenciones?

¿Cómo puedo decirte que quiero tenerte sin encerrar tu espiritú en una jaula?

Por favor,

Muéstrame la manera de amarte sin perderte

#poetry #queer poetry #poesia #poesie #love poem #longing

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Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death. I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor. He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning. But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth. And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up. Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran. With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp. I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll. I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends nor of my enemies either. Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man’s door. Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death? Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay