raspberries and roses

they/them | poet and writer | just trying to make sense of the noise inside of myself

[wild-brambles]

final thoughts of the first human to be free

i do not look back to see the

ocean below me—it’s not

there if i don’t see it. instead,

my wings of wax flutter in the

breeze. above me, the sky

stretches forever and ever

and ever, and it’s so, so

blue it hurts to look directly

into. i look, and i reach, and i

don’t think of the ocean, but

instead trace shapes in the

sparse clouds above me. one

looks like a hand, grasping down

to me. i can feel it, almost, a soft

and tender caress—a touch that

reminds me of my father, before

the hot wax made his hands

numb, before they became tough

and calloused.

i miss those hands. those hands

were from a gentler time.

look at me, father, i think as

the air grows salty. watch me

fall fly. a laugh, bright and childish,

rips its way out of me. i laugh

until my ribs hurt, until the sting of

melted wax on my shoulder blades

is forgotten in the sheer euphoria

of the air whipping around me.

i tell myself the tears are from

my laughter.

apollo watches me fall fly, and i

have the most traitorous thought—

that of all the wonders of divinity,

of all the power and might and

perfection of the gods above, none

can know joy like i do in this

moment. that must be why

he melted my wings—he was

jealous. in all their majesty, perhaps

the gods are as fallible as us

mortals.

over the crash of the ocean growing

ever louder, i can hear my father

calling out to me. it’s not words,

it’s barely even sounds, but i know

it’s for me. a truly terrible

sound, one that shreds my laughter

to pieces that flutter up with

my feathers as i fly

fall. a lifetime’s worth of grief,

of anguish, of love, all

crammed into one sound, and

all i can do is cry i’m sorry,

i’m sorry, i’ll miss you, i

should have listened, i

want to fly with you

again, i want to feel

your hands one

more time, i’m

sor—

original work, 2026

[wild-brambles]

rorschach into the

shape you

want me to be but

it does not

match the shape i

see when i try

to picture my

self shirtless in the

mirror i have spent my

whole life trying to

be the things people

saw when they looked

at me and it has

ruined me made

my ink run blurred

my shape i cannot

be myself and the

thing you think i

am they are

too different i wish

i could be the little

boy you remember but

i am something

else something trying

to not be the wicked

thing that the

pastor says i am

and i hope i can still

hold snakes and

sing the hymns with

out burning but

will you let me

know if god will

allow it?

original work, 2026

[wild-brambles]

Favorite forms/themes when you write? What ideas do you try to capture?

funny thing—i rarely write for those outside of myself. to paraphrase andrea gibson, sometimes i feel like a scribbled drawing, with my emotions being colored outside the lines, so poetry is my outlet to try and figure out what all the noise is. i focus less on specific things and more on a broad, messy, abstract picture. if someone else can find meaning or joy (or perhaps pain and anguish) in my words, that’s just a bonus.

[earlgaylatte]

things i want for my twentieth birthday-

my hair dye to rinse out right in the shower/ a vinyl that sounds like a thunderstorm/ cheap flights/ wings/ perfectly winged eyeliner/ a sense of momentum/ without being pushed from the nest/ a third season of fleabag/ the price of oranges to go down/ to be able to afford all my groceries/ a body that spoons itself/ hands that hold themselves/ my pet names to be "lovable"/ or "worthy"/ a cup of tea/ a shot of t/ to drink enough lavender that my menstrual blood smells floral/sunflowers that never die/ friends that never die/ for everyone to come to my party/ and leave older, unharmed, and laughing.

[wild-brambles]

nettles

i thought i had separated you from

anything important and meaningful in

my life, torn you bloody

and screaming from what mattered,

yet whitening toothpaste somehow

cuts deep just like those spewed

claims of my lacking

godliness, my

changeling nature.

i always thought of the

act of hating to be a

draining, consuming pasttime

that i was better not

indulging in. maybe that’s why i’m

so tired lately.

you never said it—you never

will—but sometimes

i can hear you thinking that

i’m hard to love.

maybe that’s projection on

your part. maybe that’s cruelty

on mine. maybe i’m too

tired to care right now.

maybe i’m too tired to

care, ever.

you’ve hurt me in ways i’m

still trying to understand. every

interaction i have now is

colored by the way

you treated me. every

time i feel anger creeping

up, i feel your sting like

nettles, a thousand miles

away. the sting crawls

down my throat when i

make but a simple

mistake, and suddenly the

sting is welcome, because

pain is atonement, is

release, is absolution.

you have turned me

into something i have not

yet learned to love, and

i am so

fucking

tired of hearing your

voice every time i open

my mouth. and maybe

you have your own nettles

to deal with.

but i’m so tired. i’m

so tired and they are

not my nettles. when the

day comes that i can

purge this garden of

you, i will relish in the

fire and the smoke. maybe

it will soothe my tired

bones.

original work, 2025

[wild-brambles]

time travel for those who grieve a time

in forty-five minutes i will shrug

off the last vestiges of my

youth. twenty-one years on

this world and i feel more fresh to

it than a newborn faun. but in

the hospital where they pulled

me from my mother, screaming and

bloodied, there is still an hour

window where i am young. i

exist in a quantum limbo, who

i am and who i was existing

simultaneously. can i

go back? can i pet my dog one last

time? can i draw in my friend’s

bedroom again, before

we fell apart? it’s only an

hour—surely we have time for

one more hug. one more joke. one

more game of fetch before time

eats us all. i want to remember. i

want to be able to talk to my

parents without bile creeping

up my throat. i want to stay up

until midnight on new years, binging

shows on netflix while your

parents and siblings tussle in the

living room. i want the world to

stop spinning. i want to love my

body again. i want to believe i’ll

make it to thirty. i want

time. i want to say

goodbye.

thirty-eight minutes now. an hour and

thirty-eight minutes, where i wasn’t

watching the beginning of the

end. where i didn’t fear the cruelty

of a stranger. where the thought

of god didn’t fill me with fear. where

mourning doves called to me in

the autumn air. where i had an

autumn, and a winter, and not the

howling, dangerous thing that’s

taken their place. where summer was

just hot, and nothing more. where

love was unconditional, and fear

was confined to closets and

dark hallways and things that

go bump in the night.

tick please come

back tock no stop where

tick are you going tock

i’m not finished tick

yet there’s still

tock so much more

i tick tock want to do before

tick tock the earth swallows

me whole tick

tock please i’m

tick tock begging

tick

tock you i

tick tock

just need

tick tock

more tick

tock

time.

original work, 2025

[wild-brambles]

boredom

gnaws at me like

a wild animal, like the things i

hear in the field behind our house

at night. the summer between

semesters, nothing left to do

here except kill myself. if

i don’t get a job i think

i’ll peel away the layers of my

skin to satiate the itch. there’s

nothing to fill the day with, ever

since the music stopped playing, and

i’m not old enough to drink. didn’t

you know that counting the

days makes it take longer? didn’t

you know it drives you mad with

hunger? i sure fucking

didn’t. there’s a scream locked

somewhere inside of me that’s

so loud you could hear it all

the way in new york state.

original work, 2025

[earlgaylatte]

superbowl 2025-

they've got a weed tint to their words as

i settle over their lap and try to turn the

music of their breath up. my brain stutters

like the walls of jericho crashing and I

swallow my last miracle from the bottom of

a wine glass. i've split myself open enough

times to know how to carve a space for

them in my soul. when being vulnerable isn't

enough and i've got to wear them like a

hoodie. they've got curls like lucifer and

hands like a greek myth. they've got a

smile like a northern sunset. they've got a

voice like van gogh's roses rooting in the

base of my spine. they rest their legs on

mine like a unicorn and my body is a

tapestry to immortalize. on top, the world

glows seedy amber and i nearly sob in

adoration. your warmth, my jeans; your

dorm or the library? we try not to get sick of

cuddling but stay glued to each other's

side. we don't say goodbye but we do say

"see you later," and i yearn like oscar wilde

the moment they aren't there. all sensual

and bad metaphors but with the purest

intentions.

[wild-brambles]

i’m. gwuh <3

[wild-brambles]

dishes and dead dogs

never before in my life have

i existed in a space so

empty that i feel there’s

nothing left to do but

kill myself.

this house is empty and

silent in a way that feels

dangerous. i have to

ask my mother where the

bowls are in these alien

cabinets, so instead i just make

another microwave meal and

try to ignore the harsh breathing

of my dead dog. if i

dare to step outside i’ll see the

flashing lights of the EMTs and feel

like i’m too small for this

place, while the

endless empty suburban

skyline taunts me with its hazy

glow of light pollution.

so here i sit, hearing

nothing, seeing nothing beyond

the single ceiling light and

feeling like a stranger in my

own home. i pack

up the dishes my family has

has since i was conscious enough to

remember in boxes for my cousin and

try not to want to end it

all just as the new year begins.

original work, 2025

[earlgaylatte]

I'm Drunk on Lychee and Your Voice Tastes Like Starlight-

For every night I've spent cursing the ghosts in my ribcage. For every shooting star I was too shy to wish on. For every lipstick stain I couldn't get off your shoulder. For every time I got home smelling like Old Spice and Texan Sun. For every time you've left me too stunned to speak. For every curly hair I've ever found on my shirt. For every inch of your skin I've held in my teeth. For every drop of beer turning my stepdad mean. For every time you laid dead weight in my arms. For the feeling of your palms against my own. For every shot I couldn't convince you to take with me. For seeing my doodles kissing your wrist. For every cup of tea like a written confession in my hands. For every house I'll carve a space for you in. I see you I know you and I love you. My veins are thrumming with it. I love you I love you I love you I love-

[wild-brambles]

pompa gladitorum

lament in my

ears and peppermint on

my tongue suspended

thousands of feet in

the air i

think of the empty day

behind me and

the week jam-packed with

lies ahead of me and

wonder how it is that

i got here what

decisions were made to

land me here in north

carolina on a solo

flight to a place that hasn’t

been home since i first

gazed too hungrily at

a boy did i spin the wheel

wrong did i text my

mother that i got on

the plane did i remember

to tell my friends i

loved them before i waltzed

into the lion’s den where i

recognize the beasts

that created me

did i hide the parts of

me that they will sniff out

in time regardless

the airplane icon

disappears and i see

her appear over the horizon

of my notes app

and wonder if the lions

will recognize me this time

around too or if i

am now foreign to them and

will be torn limb from limb

original work, 2024

[wild-brambles]

2:45 pm, “i miss you”

reads the text and i

think of pinks and

magentas swirling beneath

my eyelids and

the rise and fall of

orange-and-green breath

“i miss you too” i say in

return and remember

grandpa sweaters and

teeth against skin and

your name buzzing on

my tongue, tingling

like hibiscus tea

the airplane icon taunts

me here between home

and hell

while i recall 2am

and fairy lights and

warm silence

i think of looms and strings and

collecting bugs and wonder

how the breeze feels over

there in the

place you crawled out

of screaming and

bleeding and

wonder if you

are thinking the same

things about me, too

original work, 2024

[wild-brambles]

find me at the pondside

i named myself after

beautiful, green things. no,

really,

they grow tall and

strong and splash

darkly against the sky

stained with

clouds. no,

really,

i pried my name from

my mother’s mouth and

carved it into something

my own and

wondrous and rough

and she won’t look

at it. no,

really,

i nurtured its

colors with the steady

hand of a soldier,

plucking the greens from

my eyes and

sprinkling it over

the red of the

blood of the person i

was before and the

brown in my scalp.

i tore my name

from the earth

itself.

from myself.

no,

really,

there is no greater

joy than partaking

in the tragedy

of creation.

original work, 2024

[earlgaylatte]

Old Enough-

Came out of the womb/Fists curled and screaming/Little red face scrunched up in the white light./Foreshadowing to the nth degree./Body soft enough to be young./Sharp shrieking anger like a banshee and a head of Irish curls./Born old enough for your emergency contact to be the emergency/Or old enough to taste acetaminophen on your breath./The first time you watch a X-rated movie/You’ll cry yourself to sleep and won’t know why,/The first time you masturbate to the sight of a pretty trans boy you’ll try to take your life during sub-drop./Baby never smelt like Johnson’s lotion, just/Jack Daniels and cigarette ash./Fifteen the first time you asked a man to put one out on you./Sixteen and realizing being called pretty boy raises goosebumps like worship music,/Feeling slick and wild under the red midwest Sun./Growing up like a humiliation ritual with no safeword./Queer and/There’s no metaphor for that, just being seventeen the first time you/Took a smoke break from his parted lips/And seconds old when they pulled you up off the hospital bed still rosy and roaring./Brought into this life knowing that it’d be spent starting riots./You’re not old enough to drink but old enough/For friends to be killed or kill themselves./Not yet prose but a/Poem.

[earlgaylatte]

Burnt Popcorn

I never misgender myself, Unless I’m standing in the kitchen with my mom,  Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand. 

When I was growing up,  The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough,  To keep fathers and devils out of it,  Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege. 

One of these afternoons, I just know- I’ll come home to it expanded,  Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredients  Instead of color. 

I’m not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twisted  Up on the floor of the kitchen chewing Mango pits and getting caught underfoot.

Sometimes I see her in the reflection of clean pots and pans,  When I’m seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Mom’s cup Forms her daughter’s face.

Did you have prophecies too, Mama? Or  Is that something you shed like a Second skin when you started going to that Fundie church for a boy with blue-grey eyes and A haunting grin? I want to know

If the ashes from his cigarette falling Onto your pregnant belly revealed the Spiteful bitch I’d become.

I used to identify as a girl, now,  I  identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things You’re too disgusted to utter out loud. 

But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. I’d let you kick me off your counters  A thousand times if you’d just call me your son.

Dear Midwestern Daughter, Dear Midwestern Ghost.  One of these days I’ll hand you the dread I shouldered like Judas and teach You just how I earned this name.

[earlgaylatte]

Witches in Love

fall) bristles caressing the cuffed sleeves

of that beaten corduroy jacket, clinging

close enough that I grow jealous. the fall of a changing

village, streets bright with pops of orange. may these

changing leaves change me, into

a beast less hungry. I've heard whispers of spirits, 

Or the things townsfolk call spirits:

(Your laugh loud and echoing, enough that

stray cats come to investigate. 

Your sweet face scrunched in the autumn sun.)

winter) the slowness of love like a tear falling

down your cheek, kissing your jaw

with its warmth in the sharp snowy air.

-I'd take your warmth in my mouth if you

catch my drift- so long as you keep

those pretty lips praying. mom once said

if I am down on all fours

it better be for religion. the floor

creeks under the weight

of me shifting from knees to

palms; your hands ghost

over my hair like an Ouija board.

spring) it reminds me of spirits, which is to say, 

it reminds me of lying chest to chest in the shrubs, 

hearts beating like a beckoning call

for wraiths to rest in our skin. you

were focused on apparitions.

I was trying to make a worship of counting

each crease by your eyes when you smile,

each time your breath ghosted my ears.

everything ended in fours, so I

had to kiss you; four breaths in

like the hands on the dial, like the

number of books thrown off my shelf

by some energy stirring, wild and restless.

summer) the thing about the occult is once

you invite it in, it'll 

linger at every doorstep you know.

oh, soul of my damn spell work, tender as ever. 

oh, strawberry-kissed mouth.

oh, blooming summer flowers, spewing pollen over everything,

even our thighs where they meet. My

heart beat is so loud that it

could set a rhythm for us to turn

this flower field into a bedroom. 

[havingapoemwithyou]

twenty-one love poems, x by Adrienne Rich