I love you, anyways

I know you’ve been taught that big and black is scary, that being gay is a sin, and if I don’t repent before the clock strikes life, I’ll reside in the pits of Hell. I know you’ve been taught that going against the odds of fashion means that I’m a bastard, and my father must be to blame. I know you’ve been taught to believe that if I lose too much weight I must have AIDS, yet with all of this hateful “knowledge”…

I must relay this:
“I love you, anyways 💜”

Till tomorrow,
When we are reminded of the worlds sorrow.

PS: When you wake up in the morning, make sure you say “hello,” And be thankful to have laid sin free, propped on a sacred pillow.

Pride and Fear

Photo by Pond 5 Stock Photos

I’ve tried to write this piece on Pride about a dozen times. When I first started to write it, I thought it would be easy to just describe the road to the Pride I feel and how I have become more comfortable with expressing who I am, openly and honestly.

But as I started writing, I came to a startling realization: I still struggle with the idea of Pride and that it is so much more complex than just proclaiming who I am and living as that person. Pride isn’t just a feeling, it is an action and a process that I have to work at every single day. I am confronted daily with the choice to stand up proud or to shrivel into the background, passing as a straight woman when I am neither.

Oaklash: the Bay Area’s love letter to eclectic drag

Two PM comes around in a classic car showcase warehouse and it echoes –

“Everybody, welcome to the show!”

Alaska Thunderfuck’s ‘HIEEE’ fills Classic Cars West on an unsuspecting Saturday afternoon. The famous show-opening number draws a crowd around a set stage as the notorious WooWoo Monroe kicks off the second annual Oaklash drag festival.

Born in 2018, Oaklash celebrated its second year over April’s last weekend. It kicked off with an opening night party Friday at Eli’s Mile High Club where performers and live bands gave the Bay a small taste of what was to come over the next two days.

After Monroe’s lip-synced instructions of flash photography being absolutely mandatory and tipping these [performers], the day kicked off its first set. With about five performances clocking in at half an hour and a DJ set filling the next half, each eight-hour day allowed over 50 Bay Area local and visiting artists to grace the stage – the festival hosted over 100 performers, vendors, photographers, bands, and more.

Queeries got the chance to sit down with a myriad of incredible individuals all working with the festival in one way or another and, phew, does it take a village. …

The first time I realized I could marry a woman

I was sitting at a kitchen table in a small Connecticut home. There were two small dogs nestled into each other on the floor and there was a baby girl, just five months old, cooing in my sister’s lap. The ground outside was frozen over with snow and inside two women stood at the stove making breakfast: coffee, bacon, eggs, toast, while Amy Winehouse was spinning in circles on a record player in the living room, where the Christmas tree was glowing next to the couch we sat at the night before, learning about how sperm donors worked, how they hand picked just the right one so she would look like both of them. And she did, a tiny pale girl with her mom’s red hair and her mama’s blue eyes. It was the picture of family, of a picket fence home ripped from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens, lived in and loved in not even two whole years after love briefly won. It was the radiance of hope and happy, permeating through the air like the smell of fresh paint, and I saw us dancing there in the kitchen, in the home we built from the ground, drinking coffee on Sunday before church or before going grocery shopping or dropping off orange slices to little league practice. We were singing along to something sweet, or maybe just listening to the news. And the news, it was nicer than it ever is today. And we were making breakfast for our kids who laugh like me, but have your dimples. Of course, you would have to make it because I can’t cook, but that’s beside the point.


In the coffee shop you walk in fast like you own the damn place and pull up a chair before my stomach gets the chance to settle from the shock of seeing you. These days you seem to turn up everywhere, in everything. But here you are for real, finally in front of me. You have the nerve to be sheepish. It’s not like you to be shy. I realize I’m only wearing mascara. Not even the good kind. I avoid looking at you. We talk small. Your hand finds its way around mine, fits like it used to. Then I’m looking at you. Then you’re blurry. Then you’re wiping the wet from my cheeks and tilt your wrist up towards my nose. New cologne, You smile. I like it, I say. I grab your hand again and touch each finger, so I can remember how they feel the next time you let go. Your nails, so long. I know, I haven’t been biting them, You boast. It almost bothers me, I wish you still got nervous like I do. About us, about anything. Can we go to the car? I ask and you hesitate but we go anyway. The door closes and I settle into you. Such familiar comfort, contorting myself around the center console to cry against your chest like they do in movies, but  much less graceful. Then it’s your turn and I listen to the sound of you finally letting your guard down, all too late. I stroke circles on your back imagining I’m carving out some black hole where I could fall endlessly into you, away from you. Someone says I’m sorry. Someone says it’s okay, I’m sorry too. Someone says I love you. I breathe in slowly, trying to learn the smell, the new you. The new you-without-me. The new Us. Out the window the sky begins folding into the earth, and the sun melts against her like a bruise spreading: pink, purple, blue. Night closes in quick as a wink. Someone’s calling your cell phone. There’s a drizzle beginning to dot the windows. I have to go, You say. I stall, but you don’t kiss me before I leave.


for you.

I thought I had known him through you.
In your selfish, selfless forgiveness.
In your dirty hands, diligent,
digging a hole in the cool shade of your cruel world
to bury me in.
In the mystery I thought I was unfolding.
In your anger.
Your eyes, the freckled floodgates-
How they could never open, never let go of the pressure.
Like you might deflate and fly and fall without it.
But there was grace, and hope too.
The softest timbre of your voice, saved just for me.
When you spoke the words sounded like verse:
patient, honest, clever. I thought I heard him there, in our plans.
You did too.
Your guilt burned its way through every kiss.  
Our spit, a cocktail of resentment; I still taste it.
We were love as we knew it. We were the best
we could do.  
It was unfair, but we did it. And I’d still do it,
for you.

I was wrong.
Christmas Eve. Our first goodbye.
I knew him then- only then. For the first time.
In the pain of a divine, self inflicted punishment,
I felt him. his little finger reaching down
to rest on my chest, listening to the catch of my breath,
while the pressure wavers,
as if even he is unsure, like me, if I deserve it-
but still pressing, nonetheless.

another neo-sapphic love poem

Image result for pomegranate

pomegranates they all write about

pomegranates and i think it’s fucking stupid i think they yearn for

that clean contrast,

fruit on marble like

blood on grass,

like skin in sea,

the oxymoron in

“angel of death” but

we are all in opposition already,

mythology is redundant,

binarism is flat beside triangulation and

after all, our grandmothers found their way

not by following the sunset

but by tracing the stars.

Pansexuality in Schitt’s Creek: A Win for Represenation

How is everyone’s beautiful day/night/evening/morning/afternoon/twilight going? Wonderful! Well, mine is just fantastic, thank you for asking. Why is it so fantastic you may ask? Oh haha ta hee ha. Let me tell you. Because of a very special TV show called “Schitt’s Creek.”

long distance

She is the hot breath crackling

too close to the phone’s mic,

a phantom kiss on the ear.

I feel the sum of our love best right

here when she tells me about what

I’ve missed since I’ve been away.

She dances around the betrayal,

how she wishes I would’ve just

stayed so the wound of our lonely

could’ve been stitched by ten minutes

in a car and not two hours, fifty-two

dollars on the train. When I hear her

fall away into sleep I close my eyes

and pretend she is the pillow I lie on.

In the morning I wake to the sweet

whistle of her snore and I hang up,

make coffee and wish I could’ve

slept in, dreamt some more.