stagnant

we're privileged. the community that came before us laid the groundwork so i could be raised in a different world, and i will never forget their sacrifices and dedication. they gave us this: a pride that feels like community and celebration and joy. i remember the first few times i went to a queer event - i'd been raised so catholic. feeling safe like that, for the first time... it saved my life. i go to pride to celebrate that feeling - my people, laughing. out in the sun, the way we couldn't have been even 25 years ago. that feeling: no wonder we call it "pride."

who am i to be afraid anyway. there are parts of the world where people are doing much better work than i am. but it's just: i felt at home there, you know? and this year feels different. we are waiting on the dam to break. last year, at boston pride, there was a whole gaggle of sign-holders shouting about jesus. you walk around them and try not to let it get to you.

this year, i'm going to DC's pride with my girlfriend. google sends me concerns about if it's safe to exist in trump's america, if World Pride is a bigass target on all of us. every article uses the words "safety concerns" many, many times. three days ago i witnessed a shooting.

even straight people keep telling me - people are weird lately. sometimes we blame it on Covid and sometimes we blame it on the full moon. but i do remember a time before this, right. it's not just that people are more comfortable being rude. it's this strange, outwards violence. a comfort in being cruel.

it's a big hole to fall down anyway. it's not like they're going to do anything to make pride safe, not really. i don't want a police presence as the solution. and what if this is just fearmongering! what if this is just to get us to stop attending our own events! what if everything is actually fine, and i'm just freaked out by the stated intentions of our president!

and what if i'm just listening to things that are being said. what if i'm weighing the shape and size of this america accurately.

my mother calls me. she's been getting the articles too. i assure her i'll be careful, but i put the phone down and stare at it. i'm going to go to pride. other people made it safe for me, it is my duty and my honor to show up for my community. the only thing we've ever had was each other. it was always an act of bravery. being ourselves is brave.

but i am afraid. i lay out my outfit and i kiss my girlfriend. i cut my nails and clean up my undercut. i hold her hand and hang the sunset flag. the sound of this america feels different. like a volcano trembling. i will love her and i will love being queer and i will sing over the noise of it.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

I am Maram Al-Nabulsi, I currently live in the completely destroyed 🏚🚀city of Gaza, specifically Khan Younis. Since the war on Gaza began on 10/7/2023, my family - my father Muhammad, my mother Hiba and my siblings Nour, Maram, Mahmoud - have been living in constant fear, crying and suffering because of shrapnel, shells and bullets. We have no food🥘🌯, no electricity, no cooking gas, no schools🏢📚, no homes🏚, no cleaning supplies, no clothes🧣🧥🧤. Our house was completely destroyed. My school was bombed, and my sister Nour's university was turned into rubble, which deprived us all of education. The war forced us to live in displacement centers, which are just tents that are not suitable for living, especially in winter. Every day we live death, terror and panic a thousand times because of the continuous bombing of my city. The war has killed more than 50 of my relatives and neighbors. At the beginning of the war, we took refuge in my aunt's house, but it was also turned into rubble. Imagine: We have escaped imminent death more than 20 times, and have been displaced between shelters more than 13 times. My brothers and I have suffered from many diseases due to malnutrition, and we need medicine constantly. If we stay in Gaza, we may lose our lives. Recently, we have been seriously considering leaving Gaza to a safe place. However, the travel costs are very high. We need more than 70 thousand dollars to leave Gaza. Due to the exorbitant prices, rampant unemployment, insecurity, the ongoing blockade, and the continuous bombing, we have lost all our money. How can we live in such insecurity💔🙏, with the constant bombing and shrapnel flying above us? My dear compassionate friends around the world, with your generous donations, even if small, you can save 5 people from imminent death, allowing us to start a life outside Gaza full of love, peace, and hope. Best regards from Gaza City....🍉🇵🇸

♧-What? Why would you think that?

☆-I duno, I just...everyone leaves, you know? And I can't help but feel like i'm doing something to push them all away. Like maybe I talk too much, or too little. Maybe I'm too insensitive and people just get...fed up with it. with me.

♧-I haven't left.

☆-Yet. But you will.