Ink by Day

day, they/them // a place to put my poetry away

[beguines]

Leila Chatti, "Postcard from Gone"

[goldentangerines]

[ID: black serif font on white background, 18 short verses in 6 stanzas, reading:

When you left I walked / into the ocean. Not to / drown but to be held

by something / reluctant / to let go. Don't

make this bigger / than it is, which is big / enough to swallow

whales / and civilizations. / I joined

the blue, I was blue. / And when I looked / down, I shattered

and reformed / so many times, you know, I couldn't catch / a clear look at myself.

End ID.]

[tamsylum]

i ended up liking how gendered french is solely because i can say that i want people to use he/him pronouns for me the same way they use it for angels, blood and blunts

[tamsylum]

i asked a trans friend to give me her fem version of this and she said that people should use she/her with her the same way they use it for the sea, flesh and stuffed toys

[samwisegamgeeee]

I don’t speak French but I speak Spanish and I’m nonbinary so the whole gendered language thing is… difficult. I couldn’t get this post out of my head and so I wrote a poem. It's a first draft but i just had to get it out there

It’s called “Masculino como el amor, femenino como la espada”

Si tienes que usar el masculino conmigo, usa el masculino cómo lo usas para el azúcar para el lobo el amor y el mar. Pero si tienes que usar el femenino, úsalo cómo lo usas para la tierra para la anaconda la guerra y la mar. Llámame masculino cómo el día cómo el melocotón el pecho y la cometa. O, llámame femenino cómo la noche cómo la piedra la leche y la mano. Masculino cómo el viento, femenino cómo la tormenta. El hueso, la sangre. El mito, la magia. El sol, la luna. Si tienes que usar el masculino conmigo, o si tienes que usar el femenino, llámame femenino con la boca y la lengua o llámame masculino con los dientes y los pulmones. O si puedes llámame por mi nombre. Llámame yo.

Translation: Masculine like love, feminine like the sword

If you have to use the masculine for me, use the masculine like you use it for sugar for the wolf love and the sea. But if you have to use the feminine, use it like you use it for earth for the anaconda war and the sea. Call me masculine like the day like the peach the chest and the comet. Or, call me feminine like the night like the stone the milk and the hand. Masculine like the wind, feminine like the storm. The bone, the blood. The myth, the magic. The sun, the moon. If you have to use the masculine for me, or if you have to use the feminine, call me feminine with your mouth and your tongue or call me masculine with your teeth and your lungs. Or if you can call me by my name. Call me myself.

[tamsylum]

no one speak to me this poem cut me open

[samwisegamgeeee]

alsdkfjalsdkj thaaaaanks! I made a few typos but i'm fairly proud of it hehe

[wellwaterhysteria]

bluebeard's wives.

[inkbyday]

[unnumbered: mysteries of brooklyn]

— Day

September 2023

[poem text:

When we planted the seedlings in June, I unearthed shards of glass from the dirt—dozens of dusty fragments from its former life. I pictured the still buried pieces suddenly wrapped in roots, tangling with new growth. As I softened the soil with sweat, my partner sheltered small shoots from the sun’s heat.

Yesterday, we stepped outside to find a single shoe standing in the middle of the yard, one lace disappearing between cracks in the pavement as if grown from the concrete itself.

Another mystery of Brooklyn: without fertilizer or stakes to climb our tomatoes managed to stretch seven feet up (and counting). Broad leaves overtook the basil and pepper plants, devoured the neighbors’ fence and every trellis we tried to add. Stubborn green veins towered so tall that when August storms came, they keeled over entirely under the water’s weight and crept across the concrete, displaying all two hundred of their tiny, hard fruits—not yet ripe.

Across the yard, a bed of weeds shot skyward, as untamed as our carefully tended tomatoes.

[inkbyday]

—Day, March 2022

[inkbyday]

--Taste Test, Day, 2.22.2022

[inkbyday]

1.

—Day, 12.2021

[inkbyday]

--Bread, breaking, Day, 11.12.2021

[inkbyday]

—Happening, Day, 10.21

[inkbyday]

--day, 3.20.2021

[inkbyday]

--day, 2.24.2021

[inkbyday]

--day, 2.20.2021

[inkbyday]

a bed in the sunlight

and a balcony in the breeze,

cups of tea and coffee side by side

and two matching sets of keys.

~

soft leaves in every windowsill,

lavender and peppermint left in the air,

flour clinging to the counter-tops

and mismatched silverware.

~

an overflowing sock drawer

to muffle footsteps on hardwood floors,

windows always left open and

paint beginning to flake off the doors.

~

half written poems collecting in corners

and a pile of projects to sew,

countless nights ending with each other

in a home i'd be lucky to know.

--a year from now, a.day (july 2019)

[inkbyday]

you have never seen faces

turn up in disgust 

when you hold her hand.

the barista has not raised his eyebrows

and shook his head

when you paid for her coffee 

(cream, no sugar).

when you were 17 

you didn't have to beg her mother

to let her daughter go to prom

without a boy.

and you didn't see her torn apart or

given nightly devotionals and

extra time at the church and

meetings with the pastor

to cure her of your time together.

you have never felt the guilt

of being the reason her family hates her.

or the fear

that because of you she will be 

sent to the streets.

you have never been so on edge with her

that the slightest whisper

makes you jump out of your skin,

knowing being seen could mean

she is ripped away.

mothers don't pull their children away

or avert their eyes

when they see you hold her.

they do not think your love is a virus

they can catch through eye contact.

your space to love loudly

is not inhibited.

you can find it at every turn.

so do not tell us that 

in taking a fraction of this for ourselves

we have created the need

for an added month

of straight pride. 

we thought twelve would be enough for you.

--pride month, a.day (june 2019)

[inkbyday]

my pen can never capture you.

no scribble on paper can pinpoint

what it is that goes through my heart

when you go through my head.

~

i'll spend hours scouring the closest thesaurus 

for a word that matches or enough of them to

string together with my incautious hand

and get anywhere near what i'm trying to tell you.

~

i'll jot down every phrase that comes close,

fill pages with the tangled mess going through my head

while you're fast asleep,

and i should be. 

~

my messy scrawl will stretch for miles

in desperation and eventually

i'll look down and realize that what i've created

is a disjointed mess.

~

but i'll still seal it and leave it for you to decipher.

i think you'll find it a beautiful one. 

--love letters, a.day (april 2019)

[inkbyday]

i'll scratch out every word i think

and rewrite every line.

i'll spit compliance from my lips

if it only buys us more time. 

--Hidden, a.day (april 2019)