I stumbled to her doorstep after
one too many shots,
or maybe 3 or 4.
I manage to knock before falling to the ground,
or maybe I just hit my head on the door on the way down.
I closed my eyes and imagined it was the waves that were
rocking me,
the moisture above my lip was from the
splash of the water and not
blood trickling since I banged my face on the
bar just before the bartender asked me to leave.
I imagined we were on that cruise we’d been
planning before she walked in on a girl
between my legs and screamed my name
louder than I could ever get her to
moan when we spent nights with our bodies intertwined.
She opened the door and placed her hand on my chest.
I’m not sure if she were checking for a heartbeat
or if she missed me too.
I opened my eyes to white walls and
IVs and a
note on the table in front of me.

Blood Alcohol Level of .19
Six months later and I’m still cleaning up your mess.

A Date With Destinee

Whenever you’re in a relationship, there’s always one question that comes up regardless of who you are. “What’s your love story?” People are intrigued by stories, especially those that end in two people falling in love and living happily ever after. It’s our nature to want to know how people find their way through the mysteries that come with falling in love. Most people’s love stories are simple. Two people meet, they have a connection, go on a date, get to know each other, and fall in love. Mine isn’t that simple.

I met her sophomore year of high school. Neither of us realized the chain of events that our first conversation would put into motion. I could easily claim that I felt nothing more than just wanting to be friends when we first met, but looking back, I don’t think that was the case. I was fourteen, not sure of my sexual identity and definitely not ready to admit that I was not straight. I remember seeing her and just loving what I saw. I was interested. Amazed. She was new, different, beautiful… I blamed social anxiety for the feeling I got in my stomach. I never did well with being around people. Now, after three years of denying it, I realize that feeling in my stomach was more than just nervousness; it was butterflies. The kinds you hear about on television and in movies. I needed to make things work between us. I’ve felt something special for her for as long as I can remember.

Continue reading A Date With Destinee

Haiku #1

Hallways of memories,
nails hold onto years, only
request: remembrance.

This Is A Queer Poem

Four years old.

I looked down at my 3 month old brother through emerald colored glasses as I held my breath and pulled up this flow-y green dress, given up pleading my mom to wear pants or ANYTHING aside from this fabric that I soon realized would always make me uncomfortable.

Nine years old.

“You’re just a lesbian. That’s why you’re so weird.” They laughed and I started to ask for an explanation but decided it was a question better answered by someone who didn’t hate me for existing. A question that would later be answered with four extra words that remained burned into the back of my mind and shaped every thought I would have about myself. “But that’s not you.”

Fourteen years old.

I lay my eyes on this girl with pink hair in the back of my trigonometry class and a billion butterflies break out of their cocoons for the first time in my life. Wrote it off as social anxiety.

Eighteen years old.

A bottle of gas station knock-off vodka later and I kissed a girl. Awkward and awful and on the floor of a trashed hotel room surrounded by people who weren’t nearly as drunk as I was. Next morning and questions I’ve been avoiding screamed making the hangover seem nonexistent, drowned in the nausea of putting the pieces together.

Eighteen and a half.

Hey mom, I’m not straight. Everyone else knows it, thought it was time you heard too. And now she avoids any conversation about relationships.

Nineteen years old.

A creative writing exercise left me shaking in the bathroom for twenty minutes. How was I supposed to write from the perspective of the “opposite gender” when I didn’t even know my own? My cisgender professor didn’t quite understand that.

Twenty-one years old.

This is me. Whatever this is. Given up trying to find a single word or phrase to define this, but I am here. I do exist. I will continue to exist.