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construction zone

@singinghive

work in progress // howdy, im bee // 23, they/them pronouns only // art/poetry sideblog, main is at wabblebees // im so damn tired of blocking terfs. fuck off. choke. thanks💛
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[She drove a big ol' Lincoln with suicide doors and a sewing machine in the back, and a light bulb that looked like an alligator egg was mounted up front on the hood. And she had an Easter bonnet that had been signed by Tennessee Ernie Ford, and she always had sawdust in her hair.

And she cut two holes in the back of her dress and she had these scapular wings that were covered with feathers and electrical tape, and when she got good and drunk she would sing about Elkheart, Indiana, where the wind is strong and folks mind their own business

And she had at least a hundred old baseballs that she'd taken from kids, and she collected bones of all kinds.

And she lived in a trailer under a bridge, and she made her own whiskey and gave cigarettes to kids, and she'd been struck by lightning seven or eight times and she hated the mention of rain.

And she made up her own language, she wore rubber boots, and she could fix anything with string.

And her lips were like cherries, and she was stronger than any man, and she smelled like gasoline and Rootbeer Fizz and she put mud on a bee sting I got at the crick.

And she gave me my very first kiss

And she gave me my very first kiss.]

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Hanif Abdurraqib, "Glamor on the West Streets / Silver Over Everything"

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1. I confess I once cried in the middle of a grocery store because they were out of the bread I loved. There I was standing in front of a row of focaccia, my face wet with tears, wondering about small mercies, and if the universe thought I don’t deserve a pita bread that day.

2. I confess I have spent money I didn’t have on food I didn’t really want, just to not feel alone. Just to carry something warm home. Avocado toast sprinkled with crushed peppercorns. French vanilla café latte. Yes, what a tragedy to spend it on a half-finished freedom. But some nights, even a little freedom feels like a feast.

3. I understand the urge to say: you can’t even get that right. I’ve said it to myself more times than I can count.

4. These days I am trying to be gentler. Even baptism doesn’t rinse everything away. Some things are meant to stay stuck, so we remember how far we’ve come.

5. It wasn’t about the bread. It was never about the bread. I think of how sometimes it’s easier to grieve what’s missing than say what we’ve really lost.

6. I confess it’s a strange kind of faith, to keep vowing love in a world like this. But I do. I have. I will. Not because I think I can get it right, but because I still believe in trying.

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