#gbwrites

excerpts from my diary, g.b. 2026

perhaps the way that by curls fell,

the spaces between my teeth,

or the way my glasses made my eyes look much too small;

a million and one reasons spoke, so clearly, no doubt i was the joke.

talk, talk, talk, i did; was that all i did?

was i too loud, or too quiet?

did i answer too quickly, or show too much joy in each little moment?

feelings, all-consuming, as loud as ever, clawing at my skin and begging to be let in; i am awoken to evoke.

genetics could be to blame, but how far back should we go?

when should we begin to pick and choose which DNA is good and which are not?

when is it our job to critique the masterful work of something much more powerful and graceful than ourselves?

which rung of the tree do you point to when diagnosing "disease," with a 1000 year old oak?

country music might not be the thing you enjoy,

but i won't pretend to be coy,

the south raised my family from their heads to their cores;

my feet learned to walk on bare, dirt floor.

told stories as young as two of convoys parading into vietnam, only to face such a brutal battle to employ,

folk lore was dripped in charm and spun around the dance floor more than once before it was whispered to my little pink ears,

stories and tales bold enough to make any little country girl in texas shake in boots, as tomboy and as cowboy,

she knew to steer clear of the snobs and the braggers, but was told so often that the problem was "queers,' even by family and sweet, chubby-cheeked peers.

down here, the heat is fatal; especially whenever your body cannot properly regulate its heartbeat or temperature like mine so often fails to do.

that has no reflection of the way i am willing to protect my own, those i love, and myself because i will absolutely, utterly destroy,

if you only knew, —shit, man, you have no fucking clue what these southern, rebel children would brew with only hands so bare,

albeit calloused and teeth to chew and gnaw at your lies like flesh clad to bone and muscle, through the very depths and innards of your intestinal tract like a rapid pack of dogs:

poor boy, now you're nothing but a ploy to us kids raised from this soil as you will die in, like a torn, tattered toy.

inspired by @darkravencries

tale as old as time,

blamed for rates of crime,

downtrodden, "underdogs," that epitomize spirit, faces covered in grime;

these words and actions ring like bells, alarms ushering us all into wartime.

no different than the "tradition," but blatantly apathetic,

almost as if history itself can actually be prophetic;

enshrined in our nation through DNA and genetics—

isn't it quite poetic?

the 'american dream' craved by many, is actually antithetic.

systematically, legally stripped of rights, deported, raging hatred and bigotry disguised as some semblance of apologetic, sympathetic, mimetic, synthetic virtue-signaling.

and yet, you still ask why we have changed our rhetoric?

you dare to question the opposition silently building as we witness masked men kidnap citizens:

off the streets,

out of their cars,

in front of their children?

all the while, public media and officials push a narrative that has no legs to stand on,

actively misleading We The People,

deceit.

all the while, governments at every level make it harder to vote, send Federal agents to intimidate, and rig the maps for the next election to concrete their cheating,

as defeat pollutes the air.

why cheat if you're so competent?

why rewrite history if it benefits your righteous cause?

why silence criticism if there is nothing to criticize, past and present?

containing all my broken bits and pieces, fractured porcelain glass skin, and fragments of soul all littered within;

that bubble doth hold the entirety of me, and the bubble was made of flexible, impenetrable material forged in peace.

you are icarus, my sweet to be, flying as high as the eye can see; please, dear icarus, mind the height and your wings, as nothing can survive the threshold of fire about which i speak.

do not fly too close, do not be too prideful;

for, you might not expect fate to supply such unbridled, spiteful nightmares; as meek as the inevitable bleak.

as the embodiment of the fire, myself, one thing is certain;

i do.

icarus and me

string me up by barbed wire, suspend me from a mile high pyre,

pitch stones and arrows like lines of satire; laugh and revel in this unifier,

open fire, sired to the occupier, choir for hire in a magnifier.

deny me of the right to desire, depose the facts by which are required,

defend war crimes and worship your decrier; live by the pen and sword, die by ceasefire.

supplier, rectifier, self-proclaimed purifier.

democratic, anti-fascist, fully endorsed pacifist;

terrorist, rebelliousness, movement in the dissenting masses;

silence is no longer free, the price is paid in taxes,

paid for by the nation's proudest, coffins hugged by red, white, and blue,

paid in post traumatic stress, false promises shrouded in patriotic blessings;

paid in lives taken, risked, and sacrificed, paid by people frozen in wars decades ago,

as the rights that they lost their future's for are debated in the press;

the toll is paid in fetal and maternal mortality, lower rates of maternity, lost all hospitality;

the tab is written with formality into legality aiming for the authoritarian totality of federal power centrality.

the price will be paid in nationality, in erosion of constitutionality,

felt internationally, the impact of this brutality will sink into the practicality we know as rationality,

poisoning generations with criminality, in reality; stoking generality and manipulating marginalities and minute trivialities.