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Tag: lunar

Queer moon, we are guided by your tides


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 last time I bled, I did not die




When the waves break at the turn of each blood moon I remind myself that the last time I bled, I did not die. Nor the time before that. Nor the time I took a knife to my arm, nor the time that barbed wire striped my leg. Till today, everything that has made me bleed has not yet killed me.

And although it has not made me stronger, there’s something kind of sneaky-like writing your own destiny into the stars – scars – stars. Definitely stars… Like the gods of sky and that blood moon gave me the chance to fill in the blanks of my own brief chapter.

If I were not made of this flesh that ebbs and flows with red lunar tides, I would think I were immortal, and surely that is something to be afraid of.


On the day I detail the insides of my veins for you… when I pour out my insides for you to wade in my secrets…you tell me that you are drowning, and you want nothing less than to die in my honesty. You say that you would rather live without me.

You asked for it – that messy truth… yet you leave me to bleed out, washing your hands of me with your own honesty. You say it’s a choice… that I can choose… And so I do. I choose to hide from you.

So tell me what you know of trying to peel off your own skin? Tell me what you know of them cutting out your tongue? Now tell me what you know of silence – silence so thick not even thoughts slip through? Tell me what you know of them blaming you?

Haemophiliac. Hypocrite. Hypochondriac. Can you hear the liquid draining from my heart in strings of metaphors? Let these ears and eyes bleed. Taste and see it is not good.


I never owned a red scarf or a red dress. I am a matador; they are bulls. I never want to draw them to myself because we all know what happened before. Those nights. Those hands. Those toys…on the floor.

Sons can be red too. Yet they are far more rarely chosen than daughters… Daughters are picked like ripening rubies from mother nature’s tree. Just like Eve who ate the fruit, so they’re devoured by Adams who claim to hold their energy – claim to be the ribs that made them.

I am that fruit – bursting strawberries – in all the sweetness and mess. I dare you to eat me; I dare you to try and keep down the poison of my blood. The same blood that follows the command of the moon and does not surrender.