Love comes fast and strong

Poetry, funnies, and other little things. My name is Gage and I like lizards.

[peabodyblue-blog]

These Things Called Men

My mama told me once that men had names These things they etched into our soul with crooked smiles and brown eyes, and she warned me that it would hurt. My mama told me once that men had hands These big things they would wrap around us and squeeze and she warned me that our last breath would thank them. My mama told me once that men had teeth These beautiful things that shone like the sun and felt like razors, These things they’d dig into our necks and call it kisses and she warned me that they would taste like whiskey. My mama warned me about these beings called men, But she never warned me about you. She never told me that skies could fall and the earth could quake, And she never told me that those smiles could be joy and  Those teeth could taste like wine.

She never told me that those hands could hold up mountains, If only to protect me from the rainy days. She never told me that nights would seem long but never scary, When spent next to you.  My mama told me once That these things called men were terrible and lonely and great and powerful, But she never told me about you.

[peabodyblue-blog]

Counting

For years my coping tactics evolved and changed to be more discreet and more effective. First, it was tapping. Tap as fast as my hands will let me and breathe, then slow the tapping until I don’t need to anymore. Then it was jiggling. A body part has to move in tandem tango-step with my heartbeat. Then it was counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. If it didn’t work, start over. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. If it didn’t work, start over. Over and over until the numbers aligned and my head was clear. Thoughts that race so fast they could challenge asteroids sometimes made the numbers fall out of line. 2, 4, 8, 5, 9, 4, 2, 1, 3, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. These weren’t failures, but merely puzzle pieces I had to focus on fitting into the right spaces before I would let another thing cross my mind. Counting gave way to writing. Write every thought down, no matter how absurd. Write every letter down, no mtattre hwo the lterrs fall out of place. Make sure everything was neat. Orderly. On the days you can’t shower, make sure you at least eat. On the days you can’t eat, make sure you don’t sleep. On the days you can’t sleep, make sure that you’re breathing. Surviving. Nowadays everything is done in silence. Words collide in my brain and form silly things I can laugh at when the world becomes too much, and the worlds I create in my head could never be too much. I am sick and there is no cure.

This is the reality of mental illness. It is not quiet poets writing in cared-for journals. It is not soft crying or warm baths. It is bitter and it is quiet and it begs to be felt when you beg to be left alone. It is not tattoos over scars or hugs from friends when you feel a little down. It is books laid on each other in messy piles, pages torn out and words scratched out until the lines bleed ink from thoughts that could never come to fruition. It is loud crying in a cold shower because you are aching to feel but you’ve still gone numb. It is sadness and emptiness all at once, and you still don’t know what is yours to feel and what is given to you. It isn’t art or love or frailty, it is a strong tide that washed over you and the many dark things that lie in its depths. It is laziness and it is rejection because you can’t force yourself to be human. It is girl monster and it is boy undone and it is the howling in the night that won’t let you drift off to dreams that look like sweet salvation but taste like fallen grace. We are sick and there is no cure. 

We learn from a young age that these invisible raindrops will freeze us to our bones but still water the seeds of disbelief, so that when we say “I cannot” we are met with “Why not?” We learn that we are the lazy children, the unhygienic and the creatures that go bump in the night. We learn that cops are not our protectors but our embalmers and that the streets will not sing our names. This is mental illness. They are sick and there is no cure.

Now I have relearned to count until the thoughts align themselves again and I am piecing back together a future I never thought I’d have, praying for a tomorrow to come to shut out this funeral song I’ve been hearing today. My breath catches with each number and I am left gasping in the spaces in between so I’ve started gulping for air before I start so I can make it to 5. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1. 2. 3. 4. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Good, again. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. This is mental illness, and there is no cure.

[peabodyblue-blog]

This Temple, My Mind and Body

These words are sacred.  “Oh, you wrote about me? What did you say?” These words are sacred.  “Why don’t you share more poetry? It’s so good!” These words are serpent natured, coiling in my throat. “I want to read more of your poetry.” They are a poison that pours from my fingers.  These words are sacred.  I write into existence every thought with no name and face And inscribe in them the power to destroy me or create love.  These words are sacred.  They are the joyful tune of a soul in motion,  Begging to be set free from a body that trembles deep into the night. They are a hurricane inside me, these words.  They feel like lightning and thunder and rain,  Sweet relief to a heart gone dry from a season of winter air.  These words are sacred.  “Your poetry makes no sense.”  These words are sacred.  I hold them like this because they are exalting a god I wish I knew Of mindless indulgence in the love of bones still new and fresh,  But breaking under these expectations nonetheless.  These words are sacred because my mind is a temple,  And the hushed voices that fill my brain can not be disturbed.  “I can’t understand you when you’re having a panic attack,  Can you stop?”  When my voice hangs in the back of my throat like a swinging chandelier, And my thoughts nestle like volcanic anger in my chest, burning And dancing to the tune of these wind-chime hands shaking under the spring breeze,  I am quietly reminded that these words are sacred.

[peabodyblue-blog]

I love this skateboard. It’s pretty radical!

[peabodyblue-blog]

Send me poetry prompts!

please.

[peabodyblue-blog]

Seasonal Love

I knew that once when my legs grew weary,  And my eyes grew heavy,  I’d see you again.  I knew that once I slipped towards winter we’d dance and we’d cry And all would be okay. Spring brought you to me, something I’d never seen before. New and bright and tasting like copper and warm breezes, and if love were like autumn you’d be a cold wind through my sunset leaves Pushing me towards better skies.

But now I know love isn’t kind,  It is selfish and asks too much And I learned that good love is love that asks everything and receives it. So you could never know my pain when I found good love And you called it ugly.  Yet some part of me still believes that I could find a flower That smelled like us in winter,  But when I went searching I found only snow.  It felt the way your lips tasted, and I started to wish spring away.

[transphysics]

For any lesbian, gay, bi, transgender folks alone for the holidays...

http://www.yourholidaymom.com/ is a blog run by a bunch of moms (and sometimes other parents) who will post a letter to you daily until Christmas with words of acceptance and welcome.  It was designed specifically as a project for kids and adults who face rejection over the holidays because of their sexuality or gender.  This meant a lot to me the first year that I was isolated by my family, and I wanted to share it with all of you.

[spinningrims]

i’m seeing a lot of people reblogging suicide hotlines and this is just a reminder that this is a suicide help line that works like a text-based instant messenger for people who may need to talk to someone but have trouble/are uncomfortable making phone calls

[groovian-whovian]

Never don’t reblog this. There are so many people who have such bad anxiety about phone calls. This can save so many lives