Pretty Pink, Deadly Flower

I think the world is full of shoddy metaphors

...okay, maybe not all of them

But mine always seem to come out, half-baked

So far, I think my least bad one is about hope

I think that hope for me is a lot like growing seeds

They start out as nothing, little things full of possibility

And sometimes, most times there is nothing

For a while

And you feel a little like giving up

But you don’t

Maybe it’s because it’s the last thing you’ve got going for you

Maybe someone told you to hold out a little longer

Maybe you don’t have the energy to get rid of it

But you don’t get rid of it

And over time, you move on

Life goes on

But someday, maybe days, months, a year, two

Someday you come back and there’s something new

Something green and there

And that nothing becomes something

It’s not much

It’s not big, it might still die

But it’s something

And that’s what plants do:

The past is full of terrible events, and terrible people

And we’ve still got a lot of terrible events and terrible people, right here right now

And there will probably be more terrible events and terrible people, terrible in ways we can’t imagine

But I’d like to hope that the future is better

And maybe that’s naïve

But my parents named me wisdom

A name flowing through Greek to Latin to French to English

And sometimes it means learning

Because I learned to recognize my name in big words

And the one I find it in most now is Philosophy

And sometimes I find philosophy dumb

But I’ve been a cynic, and I’m trying to be realist and one day I want be an optimist

And maybe those are the glasses that taint past present and future in rosy light if you’re not careful

But I think only seeing the worse of things might be just as bad

And maybe that’s not the wisest thing to think

And maybe there’s no way of being an optimist without pretty pink making red flags just look like flags

And maybe I’m better off with cold clinical realism

But I’d like to hope

That just as the past has good sprinkled among the bad

And the present has people helping among those hurting

I miss being weightless

I miss how light I could be

I miss being floaty, fuzzy

I think I’m going insane

Trying to find patterns in the chaos

Trying to find patterns in the patternless

Like I’m Not Destined For Hell

For What Was The First Sin

I refuse to believe in God

I am Catholic, a bad one at that, a Catholic in the technicalities and in ways that get decried by ‘true’ followers of God

I am Catholic, and I do believe there is a God above

I am Catholic, and I believe there is a God, but I do not believe in him

I am Catholic,

And I have been taught to love, to love everyone, to love equally, to love fairly

And I do, I care, I care, I care

(I care and it bleeds out wine red like sacrifice)

And I have been taught to believe in Saint Mary, Mother of Christ

And I do, for She was mortal, and she was kind, and she loved

(And that, that I can believe in)

And I have been taught to believe in, to worship, God

And I believe he is there, but I do not believe in Him

I do not have faith in Him

I cannot have faith in Him

(I cannot have faith in something I cannot see)

(I cannot condemn for someone I’ll never meet)

This is teenagedom, this is queerdom

This is thinking in due dates, instead of actual dates

This is being left behind because everyone else is going on dates

This is procrastination, and perfectionism, and posed peace

This is waiting, this is searching, this is plotting

This is 2 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, til graduation

This is 2 weeks til we finish vacation

This 2 months, 3 weeks until our next break

This is waiting for me to break

This is googling symptoms of depression

This searching anxiety disorders

This is googling ADHD in Girls

This is making your skin crawl to learn what’s going on in your own fucking head

This is staying up as revenge for strict schedules and strict parents

This is trying not to drown

This juggling get a job, and join clubs, and keep your grades up, and get hobbies

This is trying to keep your room clean

This is not even trying to get clean

This is being too young and too old

This is I’ll tell them once I graduate

This is I’ll tell them when I move out

This is I’ll tell them once I transition 

This is I’ll tell them never

This is never being yourself

This is only being yourself

This is hiding

This is learning to love the ugly parts, the fucked up parts, the weird parts, the dark parts

This is learning to love being you

This is learning to love never loving

This is expectations, and not following them

This is whispered wants

This is Scientist, Doctor, Engineer

This is wanting to be a writer

This is wanting to own a small shop

This is wanting to be a translator

This is wanting a small life

This is wanting to move out, move away

This is fitting the old with the new

This is teenagedom

This is messy, this is gross, this is changing, this is learning, this is wanting

This is queerdom

This is fucking hard

This is temporary

Old Mr Jones had a farm, working hard

With jobs and space and work for many

And animals coming from yard to yard

All just trying to get their piece of plen’y (plenty)

But it doesn’t work that way

For the pigs take more than they make

And the horses tax hay

And the mules are pushed more’n they can take

The fat cats take advantage of the birds

They know not to make a fuss

But head my words

For the animals are us

How should we expect to be better