Ink Stained Hands

poems, stories, ramblings, etc

[inkstained-rhcii]

I've been writing for years, but have never posted much of it. Figured I might as well start now.

You will learn very quickly that I write from the heart, and most of what I write descends into poetry at some point.

My pronouns are he/him, my age is somewhere in the 20s, and I write often and fondly about my wife.

All of the things shared here will have been written by myself.

[inkstained-rhcii]

Another excerpt from my personal journal of sorts, written 2/25/25:

I have written before that suicide and murder are grim realities that we must face every single day. At some point during this month, a man named Sam Nordquist faced this reality. He was a 24 year old trans man from Minnesota. He worked at a group home, helping to take care of disabled adults. He loved to cook. He loved animals.

On September 28th, 2024, he went to New York to meet an online partner. He was supposed to come home 2 weeks later. His body was found in a field on February 13th, 2025. So far, 7 people have been charged with 2nd degree murder with depraved indifference. From December, 2024, to February, 2025, Sam was tortured until it ultimately killed him. He was raped with a broomstick and a table leg. He was beaten with sticks, dog toys, belts, and ropes. His body was dumped 20 miles away from where he was held.

On December 4th, 2024, Sam's mother, Linda Nordquist, got an email sent to her from the Ontario County Department of Social Services. She was told that her son had gone to their office and needed help forming an "escape plan" so that he could come home. Sam's mother requested at least 3 wellness checks for her son before police did anything. Despite the horrifying ways in which Sam was treated, both before and after his death, law enforcement so far refuse to label his murder as a hate crime. Sam was a trans man of color who was lynched by a group of white people. His cries for help were ignored.

Even after his death, he is still being disrespected and misgendered intentionally. News outlets have only shown pictures of Sam pre-transition. This is all an example of the terrifying threat that trans and other queer people face every day. If we died tomorrow, how many of us would be desecrated post mortem? How many of us would be misgendered, buried or burned in the wrong clothes, and remembered by the wrong names? We yearn so badly for freedom, for bodily autonomy, yet even in death, we are denied.

[inkstained-rhcii]

An excerpt from my personal journal of sorts, written 2/5/25:

We are currently watching in real time as history is being erased and changed. On February 1st, 2025, by 9:00 A.M., 17 different government websites removed any and all references to the queer community, or specifically targeted and removed all references to transgender individuals and research. This is far from the first time that our community has been targeted, and far from the last time.

It is so much easier for a fascist political group and president to try and eradicate us if we first do not exist on paper. They truly believe that we will go quietly, and that no one will miss us. They fail to realize or understand that the queer community has always and will always exist. It is impossible to wipe out an entire sect of humanity when what they are trying to get rid of is intrinsically linked to what makes us human in the first place. They can try to kill us all today, but we will be born again tomorrow.

I say all of this with so much hope in my heart, but I also cannot ignore the part of my heart that is breaking. We will still be here tomorrow, but there are those of us that will not make it through today. Suicide and murder are grim realities we must face the threat of every single day, simply for the perceived sin of existing. There are people here today that we will not see tomorrow. Someone's parent, child, sibling, friend, family will not be here tomorrow. There are people here today whose handwriting we will never again read. We will never again hear their voices.

Every single life lost to fascism is a bloody stain on the story and record of humanity. It is appalling and abhorrent that so many are completely alright with, or excited about, having our blood on their hands. Even worse, they have somehow deluded themselves into believing that we will go like cattle to be slaughtered.

Our blood may stain their hands, but theirs will stain our teeth.

[inkstained-rhcii]

An excerpt from a personal journal of sorts, written 1/30/25:

I fear that in today's society, we are losing the value of the written word. Technology advances, breaks down, and continues advancing, but I can't help but to feel that something is lost the further away we get from the physical written word. I remember being a small child in a classroom hearing as the adults lamented over us not being taught cursive writing anymore. Of course, we did not understand the significance back then. We were just excited that our hands would no longer hurt as much.

In the days of modern technology, we are so often reminded that the internet is "forever". I cannot ignore the logical fallacy in that statement, and perhaps I am taking the statement too literally, but nothing is truly forever. Even what I am doing right now, writing with ink on a page, is not going to last forever. One day, I will no longer be here. One day, this ink will fade. One day, these pages may crumple or burn and become illegible. But one day, the electrical grid could go down too. If the internet ceased to exist tomorrow, can we even fathom how much would be lost?

[inkstained-rhcii]

Oct. 14th

There are no pretty words for grief.

No flowery petals growing from the letters,

Nothing golden about the sound of vowels leaving lips,

No meaning conveyed and honeyed.

We are,

All of us,

Made out of grief,

Forged from it and beaten into shape,

Like clockwork cogs and springs,

Working together in tandem.

I could tell you that grief is an overabundance of love,

An out-pouring of it so profound that it has nowhere to go,

Nothing to flow into.

I could tell you that grief is a beautiful curse,

A stain on the human disposition,

A weight we have the terrible honor of bearing.

I could tell you a bardic hymn of the way that it aches and chokes,

Or I could simply describe the way it slowly takes.

Grief is a beast that hungers,

Snapping jaws and rending claws,

Aiming straight for the heart,

Stealing it even as it beats.

Grief is a black hole cavity,

The darkest pit of a hell of our own making,

Swallowing light and leaving emptiness in its wake.

Grief is choking,

It is choking on tears and words left unsaid,

Questions forever left unanswered,

Context never given.

Grief is an ache that settles in your bones,

Weighing you down,

Exhaustion so heavy that even Atlas could not bear it.

Grief is a starving thing,

Pawing at your door in winter's death,

Seeking shelter in a warm hearth,

A warmth it ultimately snuffs out.

Grief is a tired thing,

A waving white flag that only gets burned,

Bloody footprints forever wearing a circular track to nowhere.

Grief is burning tears on sun-kissed cheeks,

Trails of salt and liquid emotion,

Flowing ever onward towards an uncertain future.

Grief is existing in a world with the knowledge of what has been lost,

And no amount of words written by ink-stained hands could ever hope to impart the agony of Knowing.

There are no pretty words for grief.

10/14/2024

[inkstained-rhcii]

Wednesday Morning

The question of fatherhood is a difficult one to find an answer to.

On one hand, I would take no delight in seeing your belly swollen,

Seeing you wince as inner kicks to your ribcage bruise you.

On the other hand, I would take great joy in seeing a babe in arms,

Hair as curly as mine was,

Eyes catching the light like yours.

I would take no small measure of elation in knowing our blood runs in their veins,

In knowing our gods watch over them as they do us,

In knowing a legacy we forged from nothing would carry on in the generations bearing our name.

I would gladly sit through every sleepless night at your side,

Rocking the tiny bundle back to sleep,

Listening with breaking hearts as it cries out for a peace we cannot give.

I would adore the cooing strangers on sidewalks,

Smiling down at the result of our vows,

Hushed whispers and elbows in my side, "Aren't they as lovely as their mother?"

Oh, how I would adore watching that child grow,

Watching them as they change into their own person,

Finding new joys and dislikes,

Exploring the tangled meaning of what it is to be Alive,

Watching as they write their own stories,

Footsteps traveling down new paths.

If somehow we are blessed enough on this mortal coil,

Blessed with tinier versions of our hopes, dreams, and fears,

I pray they are as lovely as you,

As loving as I,

As brave as you,

As inquisitive as I,

Wiser than us both combined,

And never knowing the same struggles that made us who we are.

If we are blessed beyond measure,

They will never feel an unkind hand,

Never hear a slamming door,

Know nothing besides how truly they are loved and wanted,

Never feeling themselves to be a mistake.

My love, crowned jewel of my heart, my peace and inspiring muse,

The question of fatherhood is not one I expect an answer to.

I would spend my forever with you in any case,

Gladly holding your hand alone,

But I will still smile at the thought of our family growing,

If only to allow us both to heal and love those smaller parts of us that never were.

10/23/2024

[inkstained-rhcii]

A Prayer to Ares

Honorable Ares, God of sword and war

Grant me strength and courage to fight the enemies in my head

They come to me with blood hungry eyes

Brandishing weapons of hate and rage

Rage at things left undone, dreams vanquished and unsaid

Give me strength to fight them

I will not be subjugated

I will not submit

I am stronger than the armies in my head

I am stronger than I seem

I am braver than my heart admits

Fill me with courage mighty Ares

Shield me if you must from the horde

I thank you Lord Ares

Most honorable of the Gods

Aid me in my fight

1/11/2022