Maple in Autumn

She sits bright red on her stem,
Blushing as the cold draws near.
Twisting to the rhythm of the days,
Her sistren line dark limbs as they dance.

She is the first to tear away,
Twirling and gliding to freedom on the floor.
Her flight is swift and thrilling,
The dirt rising up to meet her back too soon.

She loses her vibrancy as she sprawls,
Staring up at the brilliant crimson she used to be.
Sistren behold their fallen,
But dance ever closer to their own cliff’s edge.

Little Ghosts

I hear them running down the hall
I hear them scratching on the wall
They come out when I try to sleep
And in my dreams they tend to creep
I see their essence on the floors
Sprinkled and sprayed upon the doors
When I try to lie in bed
They’re on my pillow, in my head
They cry for me when time to feed
Presenting me with a bloody deed
So violent in their loud affair
Teeth and hair fly everywhere
But when I look to find the source
They’ve gone and found a brand new course

Going Home

I seek a treasure long buried
Beneath the Mattaponi mud.
Sediment clings to long fingers,
Burrowing under untrimmed nails.
It is soft yet firm, gripping on its own.
It wants to take my arm for itself,
Just as it took this treasure.

Not all of time rests in grains of sand.
Some time flows like mud:
Swollen, grasping, sucking in,
But only whistling out.
Crab bubbles float to a surface
That swallowed something far greater.
Nothing escapes the dark glue with ease.

Here I learned where I didn’t belong.
Many stayed placid, but I was the current.
I ran till I emptied out into the sea
And floated to terra incognita.
I found tides as strong as me
And haven’t been home since.
But I need something I left behind . . . .

My hand closes around the lost treasure,
Freeing it from the vacuum of mud
That clouds the water beneath the surface.
The treasure breaches, glue sloughing from tissue,
The chambers pumping in my hand
As the remains of freshwater escape
From long clogged and clotted veins.

The Mattaponi carries away the time I lost
Trying to stay in place with those lingering.
I turn the treasure over and smile
As blood floats downstream in preparation.
Feeling it warm in the light of the sun,
The gentle rhythm of life beats in my hand.
“Come my heart,” I say. “Home awaits.”

Black Lives Matter

Yes. All lives matter. That means black lives matter just as much. Their lives are the ones being repeatedly threatened. When a house is on fire, is it right to say that all houses matter and we should be spraying all houses and not just the one? The answer is obvious.

I have cops, soldiers, and firemen as ancestors. Their sacrifices are not meaningless because I’ve decided to stand with the long neglected POC and say that enough is enough. In fact, my history makes it doubly important for me to choose where I stand. A statue is not a human life. A building is not a human life. I would rather see everything burn than lose another human life to systematic racism and cruelty. Our country was built on the backs of POC, and they’ve had to fight for every breath they’ve taken because apparently breath is not free in this free country.

The worth of a society is determined by how its least privileged are treated. If we’re the wealthiest and freest country, this bar should not be so difficult to cross. However, it is and I and millions of others are severely disappointed.

If you want info on how to help, here’s an article suggesting how:

Racial justice funds:
Protestor bail funds:
NYmag places to donate list:

Here’s an Instagram post by lifebyesther on creators to follow:

Get more personal. Buy the book Open Season by Ben Crump. He details the racial injustices and systematic violence of our own system and is representing George Floyd’s family. Watch and read Just Mercy, and The Hate U Give. Read books like Monday’s Not Coming. The black experience isn’t limited to the history books. POC have a past, but they also have a present. They have a future, and we need to recognize that.

Do yourself a favor and go follow BowtiesandBooks on Twitter, YouTube, and Instagram. They’re a wonderful person and a wonderful source of love and openness and pride during these times.

It wouldn’t be pride month if we didn’t have a fucking riot demanding our basic human rights, now would it? With that in mind, here’s another link to the Marsha P. Johnson Institute:

Without black trans women, we would not even have pride month. So for my last note, I say fuck J.K. Rowling and her TERF ways. Goodnight and good luck.


Silence is a trigger for me. I’ve tried to stop using the word trigger because it’s become such a joke in modern-day, but that’s what it is. When people don’t talk to me and I have no context for why, I tend to think I’ve done something wrong and I’m being punished. This mostly comes from bad relationships with peers and partners. My family never punished people with silence. If someone had fucked up, my family made sure they knew. But peers and partners have ghosted me, given me the silent treatment, avoided me until they decided it was time to blow up. Therefore, I require a lot of reassurance that I’m okay when things go quiet.

Silence has been coming up a lot lately. I have a partner who, when they fall into a serious depression, they shut down and don’t talk. When they first did this, I thought it was because I’d told them off and they were punishing me for being honest about my feelings. I have friends who, in an effort to deal with their own deteriorating health, have logged off the internet. I talk to people less and less each day and it scares me. I retreat into myself and I don’t even feel comfortable in my worlds at the moment. I have been struggling to write in these plague times.

Trying to find comfort in fantasy has always been a way of handling triggers for me, but the sheer volume of what I’ve been dealing with has made it hard. It’s like everything I’ve been dealing with, from bills to animal deaths to work struggles and relationship struggles, refuses to be ignored. And I have to acknowledge it in silence.