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Tag: fluid

Queer moon, we are guided by your tides

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The moon is definitely gay. Nothing can sparkle that much and be straight. I mean, if you want to get technical with me, here you go: the moon is a circle so technically it can’t be straight. Anyway.

The moon is definitely queer. Totally in love with the sun and her rays but screws around with the stars in the dark. They don’t mind that he’s a little naughty – that she’s a little naughty – that they’re a little naughty.

The moon would definitely call itself fluid, spreading itself across the day and night sky. Non-binary bright. Lesbian lunar. Bisexual bright. It’s no wonder we’re so affected by the tides. The moon is definitely gay. Nothing can sparkle that much and be straight.

Nothing can sparkle that much despite thousands upon thousand trying to put it out. Nothing can sparkle that much without having been set on fire. Nothing can sparkle that much against the shadows that try and cut it down to size.

Too many shadows have taken too many of your shapes, squashing your fabulous, your fierce, your fight. You, forced to be half-moon – half you – semi-circle so sickle the length of years in your arms. You will outlive centuries of being trapped here.

When they stare at you and point from afar, don’t you dare blink. Don’t you dare look away. Don’t shuffle your feet, gay goddess. Don’t dim your man in the moon face. Look on. Light up. Love. Sparkle. They can learn a thing from you.

The magic of Maybe and falling in love

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I really have to stop falling in love with Maybe. When I was young I thought I’d never feel these things and now I can’t seem to stop. Stop. Stop? God. Don’t stop. Carry on. A little faster. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop me from falling. I only want to halt when I hit the bottom.

A beautiful, broken, bashful, bandaged, blundering fool of a boy who – despite having crashed from such great heights – still manages to feel like he has too many limbs attached and too many teeth that slow the words or simply stand close enough to remind his lips not to kiss you. Yet.

You’ll think it funny that at the bottom of Maybe I exist between a rock – your grace – and a hard place: this short, tempting and terrifying distance from your face. Maybe you noticed that when I startled and became aware of your eyes tracing my face, I was inexplicably and profoundly attuned to how lost my hands were.

Maybe all of me was lost, because for a good part of the next hour, most of my thoughts skirted the boundary of: “Why does it feel like I have hands for the first time? How do I use them? Do they even work?”

The bashful boy at the bottom of Maybe is quietly conscious of your hands. He wants to hold them just like you’d hold a pen. He wishes he were a pen – tangled in your fingers, chewed on occasionally and used when you needed him like some kind of magic.

I really have to stop falling in love with Maybe. But maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s my bashful boyish blessing to keep tumbling – fumbling with my hands, your skin (thin frame) at the mercy of this chaotic descent.

It’s not even dark and I can’t steady the shakes. Maybe I am here alone. Maybe I can love myself without the light.