HummingBee!

Hello darling. This is a secret space for my savoury sweets. Stay, have a nice cuppa and nifty lil' conversation with a stranger, or go your merry way with a pretty thought blooming in your head. If you want to trade songs and books that are wedged into your heart, I welcome your company. I hope something makes you smile today.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Breathe

Sometimes you've inhaled and

end up choking under

the entire weight of your

unbuilt world.

And sometimes even laughter swells into

all the ways that it will dissipate

next to every tear that has

soaked the ground

and I am struggling to catch air to fill my lungs because every second that spraws in front of me is unknown and

help me

please

I can't breathe

[hummingbee-lievable]

Glimmering

Distant horizons are easier

than earth under my feet.

I am waiting for the day I get to come home

knowing that where I stand it is not.

Images pass through me and I am laughing and my smile is real

but they keep moving and I am stuck looking at you.

Someone said once that living is the woeful donkey chasing the carrot on the stick and we are always moving from one thing to the next in hopes that it will be home

and I wish I'd asked what happens if the donkey catches the carrot.

You're over there and you're beautiful and your open arms are promises I never knew I wanted made and your words are art etched into my willing flesh and your soft looks are welcome I've been long waiting for and I am

running.

When I reach you

please stay my home.

[hummingbee-lievable]

In Place of Flowers

I've heard you offer

in sunset light

the beating of your own heart

every secret you ever plan to keep

a constant movement of fingertips over skin

steady choosing

rafts in mine fields

to keep your eyes focused on mine when they begin to drift

an incessant unfolding in question's form

myriad promises and

unquantifiable hope melded with piercing intention.

I've never been a fan of offering flowers as gesture of

undying affection.

What could be more dying than the final scent that they exude as a last, desperate plea?

Your hand in mine is more than enough.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Hello fellow writer nerds!

My page consists pretty much entirely of poetry, but this is important:

I got scammed. And I want to prevent the same thing from happening to you.

This artist, @canvasalchemy, reached out and asked me to write a poem to accompany a sketch he was doing for a commission. I did, and he told me I would receive 30% of the fee.

I was emailed an e-check for $500 from Sarah Allison Hughes at [email protected]. He told me his deposit balance was met, and asked if the whole fee could just be sent to me.

I thought I was so careful. I made sure the check cleared and deposited before sending his portion through Zelle.

I was not careful enough. They altered the check after I sent the money. This is a phishing scam. I've reported the artist, but there's nothing more I can do except let you all know.

Be careful, please. It's so easy to think "I'd never get caught by something like this" until it happens.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for sharing your art, too.

[hypnopompicreverie]

They were going by canvasalchemy, now @/velvetgild (which I saw just before blocking them)- The @ they included will still go to the correct blog, however. Thanks to this person, I managed to not get caught, but they’re still up to this same stunt. My artist friend thought it looked real enough upon initial inspection, but I was still feeling unsettled and so searched up their handle at the time and I’m so glad I did. I know I said it once already, but thank you again hummingbee-lievable!

To everyone else- Be warned.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Update to the story.

Thank you, dear, for showing me beyond a doubt the way this person operates.

Boosting for continued awareness.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Hello fellow writer nerds!

My page consists pretty much entirely of poetry, but this is important:

I got scammed. And I want to prevent the same thing from happening to you.

This artist, @canvasalchemy, reached out and asked me to write a poem to accompany a sketch he was doing for a commission. I did, and he told me I would receive 30% of the fee.

I was emailed an e-check for $500 from Sarah Allison Hughes at [email protected]. He told me his deposit balance was met, and asked if the whole fee could just be sent to me.

I thought I was so careful. I made sure the check cleared and deposited before sending his portion through Zelle.

I was not careful enough. They altered the check after I sent the money. This is a phishing scam. I've reported the artist, but there's nothing more I can do except let you all know.

Be careful, please. It's so easy to think "I'd never get caught by something like this" until it happens.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for sharing your art, too.

[hummingbee-lievable]

You Will Never Know

the taste of my family's sourdough bread

how the sunlight felt on my skin after clambering in creek waters

the memory of the sharp sting of a whipped belt against bare feet

the sickness I felt at my father's touch

the mischievous delight of baked days in empty gullies and gaping tunnels

the warmth I stumbled into at the library after school

the hours upon hours of laughter and tears that

we have not gotten to share.

But your hand as my phone background

exudes more light

than the memories I cling to.

Someday

I'd like to make sourdough bread with you.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Stormfire Heart

You wanted a poem that talked about you

the way Gwendolyn Brooks talked about Robert Frost.

You wanted proof of my savouring you

the way she admired his lightning eyes and

iron mouth.

You wanted me to show you that I see you as

splendid.

Is it enough to tell you?

I can't take your gentle face in my hands

and kiss your soft brow

or take your loving fingers and

intertwine them in mine;

I can't press your willing head to my clockwork heart;

I can't savour the grasping of your throat

as you work to meet me with waterfall words and empathetic understanding

but I can tell you that I love you.

Is that enough?

Maybe not.

I can tell you that I love you, today.

And tomorrow.

And every day after.

Would that suffice?

I cannot hold you so far away from me that

as the light falls onto you I can

appraise your shape as though you were no more than

statuesque.

You are too close. And too much mine. And too much your own.

You are too human and too real to be placed on stone pedestals and treasured in two dimensional letters scrawling across flat page.

Instead

I would like to treasure you with my hands. With my mouth. With my words. With my life.

I would like to take your edges and hold them in the palm of my hand and treasure them

and then I would like to place your footsteps next to mine

and take your hand.

Is that enough?

[hummingbee-lievable]

My love. I ask of you:

Keep being you? This?

Tell me when you would love to talk but have things you need to do before that happens. Tell me that you are thinking of me and missing me and wanting me. Even if we're 80. Dance with me with every thought in your mind. Press fingers into my skin. Send me missives and rants and monologues. Build puzzles with me. Wrap your arm around my waist and whirl me onto the floor to a lovely song. Drag me into the moonlight. Listen to me when I tell you about the stars I find in you, even if you can't believe it. Know that God has held our hands and put them into each others'. Tell me stories. Stumble sometimes, so that I can catch you. Kiss the palms of my hand when they pass your cheeks. Tell me what I need to hear, when I forget. Look me in the eyes.

And I. I will

kiss you senseless sometimes and

let you kiss me into incoherence others

write you everything I can't think to say

want you

organise our lives into lists we will fail to follow

build and break and build again

laugh with you anyway

show you my corners

press in

parse through words with you

pursue you

remind you when you need reminding

take your hand

listen to your words

kiss you on every mountaintop and every car ride and every coming or leaving

catch you

stroke your cheek

look into your eyes

always,

everytime.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Remind Me

of why we are here.

Because we've promised.

We've chosen.

To be witnesses and witnessed.

To keep our hands strong and our hearts full.

Of the Lord. Of each other.

To always ask each other questions.

To always offer a hand in dance (and take it).

To miss each other.

To listen to every unfolding story.

To reach for and offer every corner we are capable of.

To bring each other peace.

To amplify each other.

To inspire each other.

To sing fire some times and waves others.

To ease the weights.

To walk beside each other hand in hand.

To make each other laugh (and to laugh together).

To remind each other of the beauty we see within.

To show each other the stars we've missed.

To share adventures.

To suffer together and come out the other side stronger in love.

To create together.

To remind each other of God's love when it is too far out of reach (to remember that He introduced my hand to yours and yours to mine).

To stumble and be caught.

To have the palms of our hands kissed as they pass a cheek.

To fill each other with warmth and copious cups of tea.

To untie every knot.

To learn together. To expand each other.

To hold each others' gaze, truly and tenderly.

To be ridiculous together.

To share pretty rocks and deepest depths.

To have ugly moments (peanuts and M&Ms alike) and keep walking.

To break down walls and build foundation.

To change together.

To be joy to each other.

To press hands to hearts to ensure of a steady beat (and palms to stomachs to ensure the safety within).

To sing God's love in every "I love you".

To fit each other as best as we can (and understand when we don't).

To fill the empty spaces (and to remind each other of Who can when we cannot).

To remind each other of the light we see.

To surrender to one another.

To give. And to receive.

To delight in each other.

To learn each other such that each idiosyncrasy is a gift (and a pain, and a gift again).

To welcome one another home.

To know home is in each other.

To hold each other gently (open hands).

To pull each other down onto beds and up into mountains.

To sit next to each other and know that it is a gift.

To look at a moment and know it is not to be taken for granted.

To forgive each other our failures upon understanding them.

To do our best towards and with each other.

To trust.

Remind me of the beautiful story we are building together.

Show me, too, how it can be.

Take my hand.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Anxiety

Take a breath.

Count to ten.

1.

You are in a rocket ship. The stars swirl past you and your imagination is your dearest friend.

2.

My therapist taught me to focus on the senses. 5 things I see, 4 things I can touch, 3 things I can hear, 2 things I can smell, 1 thing I can taste. He said that you deal with the symptom and I said that was silly because if you can find the cause, you can deal with the symptom, but he told me that if I showed up at the hospital with a broken arm, they wouldn't refuse to treat me if I couldn't tell them how I'd broken it.

3.

Bright colours and laughing faces, whirling skirts and joined hands.

4.

Michael Sheen once referenced the poem The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, in which he talks about the line "these fragments I have shored against my ruins". The collection of small joys we have propped against our inevitable decay. I have a cup of tea every night before bed.

5.

Soft animals and rushing water, fresh roses and cattails.

6.

God told me, when I sat at his feet holding all of me in open arms that could no longer hold in ugly roiling tentacles of toxic green and asked him to help me, that I was beautiful because I was. That no matter what space I filled, it would be beautiful because it was mine. And he told me to listen to my body because if I listened closely I could hear what I wanted and my life wouldn't be so heavy when I could shine the way I wanted to. He also told me I was a sunflower, and an oak.

7.

Your head on her lap, her fingers running through your hair. Strands of whatever book she's reading weaving through the air.

8.

I still think about that one person that said it took them a long time to accept that they weren't going to die young. I've been living braced for impact for so long that I forgot to give my life a shape that I actually wanted.

9.

In this one, the ground is soft beneath your bare feet, miles of green and warmth meeting your senses.

10.

My ex's mother taught me to find a part of my body that I was aware of and how it felt, if I couldn't sleep. And then to find another one, and then to go back to the first. And keep adding onto the stack.

Back of my head and how it feels on the pillow.

Spine and how it is pressed against the bed.

Back of my head and how it feels on the pillow.

Spine and how it is pressed against the bed.

Palm of my hand and the coolness of my sheets.

And so on.

Is your heart calmer, now?

[hummingbee-lievable]

Still Yet More

Laughter in warm rooms

Shattered glass and mistakes that become learning

A head resting in a lap and fingers gently running through hair

Asking hard questions

A favourite chair

The smell of cooking onions

Crumpling and a hand that reaches

Cleaning the bathroom

Endless planning

Passing one another in the hallway

Remembering

We are endless

and with each other

still yet more

[hummingbee-lievable]

Home Has Always Lived In Us

Between every breath glimmers

memory.

Once the shape of it has faded

it becomes not remembrance

but a universal knowing;

familiarity sewn into heartbeat.

Lurking behind each inhale captured moments blossom:

sand under bare feet

wind and salty sea spray against skin

blinding blue and clammy hands

harsh edges and beloved company;

the intrinsic dance

of hardship and delight.

The inevitable will arrive.

The silhouettes will become empty lines

but still.

We are not taught

to recognise the love poured into our lungs with every act

but the gift hides

behind every exhale.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Deciding

I've spent the last 6 months

sitting in a chair

as though

the tighter my fingers dig into the fabric

the less painful any movement will be.

You said that you will die broken

and I think I've been

waiting

for the secret choice that would end

with me not broken but whole.

But that choice doesn't exist, does it?

I just get to choose

how I will be broken.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Maybe I Need To Be Weak

Maybe I need to look at

the needles

that punctured my flesh

and remember that the size of them

to me

was daggers.

Maybe I need to accept that

small wounds

carve out my shape

still.

Maybe the imprint of my father's fingerprints on my skin

and his tongue in my mouth

is rape

(even though I was never taken violently even though I didn't understand even though all I knew was that sometimes it felt good and that afterwards he was kind).

Maybe I'm allowed to have things be real

even if the outline of them is

not something I can explain

and everything inside of it

is just as lost as I am.

There is a fly in my room.

I did everything I could think of to get it to stay out

but the truth is

my door is broken

and so the fly is here anyway.

Maybe that's okay.

[hummingbee-lievable]

The Danger of Fantasy

is the noose is strung high up

and the higher we climb

the more the rope splinters into our hands.

We have such dreams.

The lovely house, the rich partner, the wild adventures, the laughing children, the shining production of a sweating brow.

We have been built

to reach

for such pristine images

but we are not taught.

We are not taught that life is sharper than the pretty pictures

and that being aware of every ticking minute

hurts.

We are not taught that in order to build something

you have to start small

and then dig your heels in and grit your teeth and

that you will lose fragments in the process.

We are not taught that even friendship

is riddled with thorns

and that to love best

we have to let go of hope-

that real friendship is not

fixing

but standing beside.

We are not taught that love is

double edged and that every time you let someone in

they let you in too

and take pieces of you with them

and we are not shown

how to hold those pieces gently.

We are shown that everything must be set and poised and perfection and laughing in the rain and kissing on mountaintops and cuddling under a pillow fort

but not what you do after every kiss, every laugh, every embrace. That you will be cold, that you will have to walk down the mountain and know how to be with each other as you do, and that when you are not ravaged by the delight of passion you will have to sit with each other and talk. Really talk. About everything.

And this? This too, is love.

We are not taught that for every dream we have

there is a bridge to get to them

and we are not shown how to walk it when it surprises the bottom of our feet.

What do we do when we are filled with nothing but question?

Ask.

[hummingbee-lievable]

The Walk Towards

the open door is

shrouded with arching branches

dallying words (you'll talk the world through over and over again and it still won't feel like enough)

sacred treasuring (each line of their brow will become a secret you glory in keeping)

thirsting wants (and every held breath and squeezed-tight eye and hand to reach for is gift)

held breath (hope and fear trapped in lungs)

and every step forward is

anticipation.

Such delight waits in questions unanswered.

[hummingbee-lievable]

So You Want

to be taken

to be welcomed wholly

to be known completely.

So you want

every question you have been asking

to be met with ready lips and an open mind.

So you want to

fold

and be caught.

I take you, sweet boy.

I take you for what is known

and unknown.

I take you for promises

and for action neverending.

I take you

in brokenness

and beauty.

As you have shown me

that I can be taken

and that it is okay

(more than okay; that it is home),

I will show you.