As always, thank you to everyone.
RED
The words emerge cold and calculating, like strikes in the wars
fought by the man before her. But then it’s done and the tulips
whistle out the tune of the world that also
caresses the blush-powdered face.
Harrison
Edgar
RED
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy…
No, no, those don’t work.
Such insufficient words, so focused
on the Popular.
They don’t do him any justice,
they don’t speak to the truth that has been inside
him from that dreaded day 3 of high school, his first gym
class
in a new and unfamiliar place.
They don’t speak to how he feels now,
on the class field trip, alone with the other he trusts
and maybe, just maybe, likes.
No, not likes, likes.
The words fling out in a flurry of fear,
the shade of his face ripe for the picking.
But then it’s done, it’s all fine, smiles, grins
and the lump is pushed back down for the next person.
When the pain cuts you deep, when the night keeps you from
sleeping…
No, no, those don’t work.
Such insufficient words, so focused
on the Popular.
They don’t do her any justice,
they don’t speak to the truth that has been inside
her from the first trip to see Avengers, observing
the black-clothed, back-bending, red-haired fighting dance
of a certain scarlet.
They don’t speak to how she feels now,
standing in the kitchen with a mother making machaca
for the dinner a day or two away
organized by all the women of the church.
The words emerge in broken bits, like
the shaded drops that drip from gashed hands.
But then it’s done, and the silence is indefinite
before it ends with a silent cut as fingers slip.
You want them to see you, like they see every other girl…
No, no, those don’t work.
Such insufficient words
for this deep change she goes though.
They don’t do her any justice,
they don’t speak to the truth that has been inside
since he first put on a dress after a nagging feeling
that exploded into a tremor of correctness.
They don’t speak to how she feels now,
stepping out into full sight of a father
within the backyard lights
as she’d been trying to slip away to a good time.
The words emerge cold and calculating, like
strikes in the wars fought by the man before her.
But then it’s done and the tulips whistle out the
tune of the world that also caresses the blush-powdered
face.
Confiding in friends, mothers, fathers,
it is the turning point in life for many.
When every word counts and red, deep red,
seeps in on heated skin and watery eyes.
For all, the replies are different.
But all of them share that crimson shade in some way.
When
I was in the seventh grade, I had my first
crush on a girl. I remember exactly
how I felt thinking about her:
the dizzying rush, the
butterflies,
secretly keeping her picture
in a locket I wore. But at the same time,
I remember feeling different somehow.
Anonymous
Being Halfway
Out: Why I Don’t Put a
Label On It
When I was in the seventh grade, I had my first crush on a
girl. I remember exactly how I
felt thinking about her: the dizzying rush, the butterflies,
secretly keeping her picture
in a locket I wore. But at the same time, I remember feeling
different somehow. I had
never even heard of the word gay – thanks, complete lack of
middle school sex ed – but I
somehow felt like I couldn’t relate to the girls in my class
when they gushed about guys.
I knew that loving a girl didn’t seem normal, so I never
talked about it.
Fast forward three years. I finally made friends with
someone who was out of the closet,
and we became best friends fast. He taught me about
sexualities, gender expression, and
all of the things I hadn’t understood when I was younger.
Finally, the way I felt was
starting to make sense. After a few months of our
friendship, I began telling my
classmates that I had realized I was a lesbian, all of whom
were unwaveringly supportive
and who I could not have been more grateful for. I even
worked up to telling my unofficial
then-boyfriend the same thing (not one of my proudest
moments, but it needed to happen).
At last, I understood who I was. Or so I thought.
A month later, I met a guy at my school’s coffeehouse who I
had never seen before.
Something about him lit me up inside, and I couldn’t quite
put my finger on it. There were
certainly butterflies, but they weren’t the same kind as
before. This feeling was
different. Still, one thing led to another, and after
flirting at the coffeehouse all
night, we decided to start dating. I was so excited to be
with him, but also confused.
Wasn’t I a lesbian? The classmates I had come out to didn’t
understand what was happening,
and honestly, neither did I. I felt like a fraud.
As I continued to grow and learn from my relationship, I
realized that I was capable of
loving a man, even if the feelings I experienced for him
would be different than the way I
felt for a woman. I also realized that not everyone on my
journey would be as accepting of
my sexuality as my high school classmates were. My mother
had questioned the existence of
bisexual people throughout my entire life, so I didn’t think
that being bisexual was even
a possibility. Maybe I was straight and had been confused in
the beginning. Maybe I liked
women and this one particular man! I couldn’t figure out who
I was, and I was lucky enough
to be in a straight-passing relationship that I wasn’t
pressured into. It was jarring to
realize how I suddenly fit back into conversations when I
was in a straight relationship.
I was now “normal”; I could fit in.
After spending five years in that relationship and dating
another man shortly thereafter,
I have still never been in a real relationship with a woman.
But even without having dated
a woman, I have had feelings for them throughout my life,
feelings that are absolutely
real. The difference of feeling I experience for different
genders has never gone away,
but I have realized that different feelings are not invalid
feelings. This difference,
however, has made the term bisexual (a term that would
usually be ascribed to my
sexuality) resonate less with me, so I choose not to label
myself. While there are a
myriad of terms that I could choose from as a label, I would
rather be open to the fact
that sexuality is fluid, and who I identify as can always
change. I am proud to be who I
am, and proud to support the incredible and diverse spectrum
of identities that exist
under the umbrella of sexuality. I don’t have to define
myself by any words that don’t
suit me, even if the reason they don’t is simply how it
feels to say them.
Of course, because of my straight-passing relationships and
my choice to avoid labelling
myself, I have never been subject to so many of the
challenges that many members of the
LGBTQ+ community face on a daily basis. I have been afforded
the option to not come out to
my family, because my relationships have not made this
difficult, nerve-wracking process a
necessity. I am not stared at for holding hands with the
person I love or treated any
differently when I introduce my partner to someone. The
privilege I hold as a
straight-passing person is immense, and it has allowed me to
stay halfway in the closet. I
am afforded the opportunity to choose who I come out to, and
so far, I have only come out
to people who make me feel extremely safe. So many people do
not have this option.
If you are reading this as an ally, I can’t express how
important your support is for the
LGBTQ + community. For those of us with a choice to come out
or stay hidden, your support
and voice might be the reason we are able to come out to
someone and be our authentic
selves. Whether we label ourselves or not, supportive
acceptance is the key for everyone
to be able to love who they want to love. And really, isn’t
more love exactly what the
world needs? I certainly think so.
ORANGE
Today we
all wish that she’d won
For America is weighed down by a ton.
With investigations aplenty
Hell, I think they’re more than twenty,
While rainbows are torn apart by guns.
Harrison
Edgar
ORANGE
There once was a man from New York
who was as prickly as a fork.
He looked like a clown,
But given chance for a crown
Now we all wish he’d been dropped by the stork.
He joined a man named after money
Whose hatred for gays is unfunny.
He dodged questions galore,
And has been rigid as an oar,
With him in it, the world seems less sunny.
Together they faced a statesman of many years,
Who inspired both anger and respect in her peers.
She had a complex past,
But people thought she could beat the ass
And when she lost, there were many scared queers.
Today we all wish that she’d won
For America is weighed down by a ton.
With investigations aplenty
Hell, I think they’re more than twenty,
While rainbows are torn apart by guns.
I march with the children of the stars,
The dreamers,
With the flowerchilds
And unicorns
And with all the colours of the rainbow.
@ANDIANDCO
ORANGE
The dreamers,
With the flowerchilds
And unicorns
And with all the colours of the rainbow.
Come and join our song and dance of freedom!
YELLOW
I’m yellow like a lemon,
Sour with moisture being crushed out
Because she’s out with him again,
And I think I’m going to be sick.
Harrison
Edgar
YELLOW
It wasn’t just a one time thing,
Not like us at all, oh no,
That was just a one time fling.
She’s out with him again,
Out and about,
Fingers interlacing, locking,
Securing something I will never have.
She’s out with him again,
I had to drop her off,
In the car I first kissed a girl,
That being her.
She’s out with him again,
Not picking up her phone,
Possibly because
She doesn’t want to talk with me.
She’s out with him again,
In spite of our intense debate.
I think he’s using her, but she
Thinks he’s very sweet.
She’s out with him again,
And now we had a fight.
We haven’t fought since we were girls,
Both at the age of nine.
She’s out with him again,
Ignoring me in the halls.
He vaguely smiles at me in class,
And I want to strangle him.
She’s out with him again,
Their Facebook status changed.
I don’t even turn around to talk in class
Because I know she’ll be looking at him.
She’s out with him again,
So I’m sitting here alone,
Bubbling up a nice internal pot
Of bitter stew.
She’s out with him again,
And it’s the night of junior prom.
I can’t believe I came here,
When they are dancing round.
I’m yellow like a lemon,
Sour with moisture being crushed out
Because she’s out with him again,
And I think I’m going to be sick.
Then you press the pads of your fingers to mine,
electric, sharp
and warm.
Jashwini
Asokan
YEARNING
Didn’t know what it meant
Till my fingers were inches away from yours.
Reaching to touch,
To hug, to kiss,
To do something,
Yearning to taste your love.
Then you press the pads of your fingers to mine,
Electric, sharp and warm.
I’m falling hard and I’m falling fast.
Still yearning
To spend eternity and more with you.
Only your scent can complete me,
So hurry up and hold me
Till I yearn no more…
GREEN
Just because she was aromantic didn’t mean she didn’t feel love
She loved the cold touch of her dog’s nose against her
cheek
Ashley Di
Perna
Beauty, Grace,
Aro and Ace
love
She loved the cold touch of her dog’s nose against her
cheek,
the feeling of fresh, brilliantly green grass beneath her
feet
the sound of her baby brother babbling and giggling
the feeling of sea water splashed against her skin after
she’d been baking in the sun
Braiding her best friends’ hair as they shared stories back
and forth
Just because she was asexual didn’t mean she didn’t feel
desire
She desired good food and good company,
To travel to the most exotic and wondrous places on the
planet
for her drawings of the lilac sky to look just as good as
the image in her head
for her favourite TV couple to just finally get together
already.
Just because she loved differently didn’t mean she didn’t
love
Just because she desired different things didn’t mean she
didn’t desire
Just because she lived her life differently didn’t mean she
didn’t feel alive
BLUE
Staring at the two locked doors in front of me, I
feel a bead of sweat developing on my temple.
.
Amichai
Abraham
WARDROBE
bead of sweat developing on my temple. It escapes down my
cheek until finally dripping off my chin as it falls between
my crisscrossed legs. I’ve lived here alone in this wardrobe
my whole life. I know what’s on the outside. I’ve seen it
before – a glimpse of it – but I never ask to leave. Well, I
never asked to leave until recently anyways. Can you really
blame me? Nobody wants to live in a wardrobe. It’s humid,
dark, smelly and claustrophobic. The whole arrangement is
undesirable. The two captors keep me in here. I guess they
find their job to be pretty easy, that was, until I started
asking to leave. I want to get out and I don’t want to come
back. Is that really too much to ask? I bang on the door.
“Hello? Captors?” I call out.
“Hi, Sam,” responds a feminine voice. “How was your day?”
“Well, I guess I’m okay, but re-”
“That’s wonderful, baby. Your other captor wants to say hi.”
“Ok, but really I-”
“Howdy Sam!” Says a second masculine voice.
“Hello, sir.”
“Doin’ alright today kid-o?”
“Yeah, I’m ok. I need to talk to both of you about
something.”
“Sure thing. We’re just serving supper.”
The slit at the bottom of the right door opens and a plate
of food slides through. The crevice closes just as fast as
it opens.
“So, what’s on your mind?” Asks the masculine voice. I can
hear the gentle clattering of cutlery on the other side of
the door. I think this time it will go differently. The
captors will have to accept my decision. I am their only
captive after all.
“YOU WHAT?!” The masculine voice explodes as he pounds his
fist against my wardrobe, causing some clothes to fall off
their hangers. I’m starting to tear up.
The feminine voice is more sedated but I can still tell that
she’s annoyed.
“Honey,” she says. “Remember we talked about this? About why
you can’t leave the wardrobe? About how there’s no wardrobe
in the first place?”
I don’t respond. I’m too busy diverting the lazy river from
my eyes.
“Well, maybe it’s time we remind them! I’m gifted one
captive…ONE! And sure as shit, she starts making stuff up
about wanting to come out of a ‘wardrobe’! What the hell is
wrong with you?”
Please…I just want them to stop.
The feminine voice starts. “Baby, this ‘wanting to leave the
wardrobe’ thing. It’s a phase…You know that, right?”
I don’t. It’s not.
“A lot of young people your age go through it. They all have
delusions of being in some ‘wardrobe’. Then they want to
‘come out’. I mean, really it’s-”
“A lot of captors don’t have a problem with it! A lot of
them aren’t captors in the first place!” I yelp, choking on
my tears.
“BE QUIET AND DON’T INTERRUPT!” Snaps the masculine voice.
He opens up the slit at the bottom of my door, sliding in a
leather-bound novel. The cover is very bland. Its only
markings being that of a gold-tinted letter t.
“Vilecusti, 6:22pm. What does it say?!”
I already know what it says.
“Tell me what it says, dammit!”
I stay silent.
“TELL ME!” His voice booms.
“IT WAS WRITTEN A MILLION YEARS AGO!” I finally erupt.
“HOW DARE YOU?”
I begin to hear the grieving sounds of the feminine voice.
“What’s wrong with our captive?” She says, speaking in
shambles.
“Look what you did now! You’re making your captor cry!”
I’m crying too but he can’t see it, nor does he want to.
“That’s it,” he reaches in through the slit and pulls out my
plate with the food I still haven’t touched. “No dinner
tonight! No dinner for ungrateful captives who ask to leave
imaginary wardrobes!”
“I hate you both!” I hear myself yell. “Just let me leave!”
“You’re not leaving because I know you’re not trapped in a
wardrobe and that’s final,” he says sternly. “Stop
pretending like there’s a wardrobe there at all.”
I hear them both get up. “It’s here,” I plead as I claw at
my damp face. “You can see it, can’t you? The wardrobe is
who I am.”
“Shut up!” he yells, shutting me down. I hear both of them
get up. “If you’re so sure you’re in a wardrobe then feel
free to fiddle around with this,” he says as he shoves a
hammer through the still open crevice before slamming the
slit shut again.
“Also feel free to read more of that book.” I hear him say
as the two of them slowly walk away.
Long after they’re gone, I’m still a frozen mess. The book
is at my feet, the hammer in my hand. I clutch it like a
vice and it feels as if my skin might burn right through the
handle. I stare directly at the hammer, and its flat face
stares right back at me. I press it against my forehead. I
turn my head slowly and stare at the leather-bound novel and
I start shaking my head violently. I lift the hammer and
with a thunderous roar, I strike the wardrobe door. Some
wood splinters off. Now fueled by rage and confidence, I
strike the door over and over again.
A hole is beginning to form. I might be able to reach the
knob.
PURPLE
He is not Cameron, calm and calculating cashier
Working to support his aging mother
But Cam, calm as ever but seeking no identifier,
Together with another that they love.
.
Harrison
Edgar
PURPLE
pads
with bright purple petaled plant life, blooming like
Newly blown bombs with their clear colors.
And we hold hands.
We remain entwined and walk right to the edge
Of a wooden edifice built of blocks
And wood, now wetted by rampant rain.
And we look down.
We see us, as we are, but with each
Rabid ripple of the whipping waves
caused by downward drops,
We also see what we are not.
I am not Elijah, energetic electrician of eleven years
with his wonderful wife Whitney
But a woman, Elis, herself,
Together with another whom I love.
He is not Cameron, calm and calculating cashier
Working to support his aging mother
But Cam, calm as ever but seeking no identifier,
Together with another that they love.
Together we tip into the warm waters that welcomes us
And slip us deeper down into depths of darkness
But we are beacons in this place.
We are brilliant.
We turn towards each other and begin a dance of delight,
Slow and silent as we sink but happy
Because we are with each other, willful
In our defiance of the dark.
We alight upon the slimy silt that slowly swirls with us
In our twirling time, grinning to each other as we live
lives true
And secret at the bottom of this lake.
We are ourselves.
At the center of the swirl, we survive
Because we are quiet, cautious and collected if confronted
But when it’s done, we go back to turning over together
In one united form.
They and me, we found each other by accident,
A stray sidelong glance that set a fire simmering.
The approach after was simple,
But effective.
We met again and again, for coffee which went cool
In all the flowing feelings and timid taps of skin.
Until now, here we are, hiding in a place like this,
To be ourselves.
We always have such a tiring time,
Expending energy so fiercely it frightens me
But delights me at the same time.
So here we are.
It always must end eventually even though
We desperately wish it didn’t.
We slowly stop our spinning
And we look into the eyes.
Those eyes of kindness, of calmness,
Of unsaid silent feeling,
And then we simply rise on up,
Slowly, together.
We rise on up from the concealing crud,
Silent but content.
We’re finally back to the surface, soaking,
but happy.
RAINBOW
What Does Love Look Like?
Rachel
Panico
What Does Love
Look Like?
Love is Red.
Flushed skin, red hair, red lips and fingertips. Holding
hands while jumping off the edge of a cliff. A hand pressed
to the small of the back. A warm breeze for the chaotic
mind. The spark of life behind glassy eyes. A sturdy rock to
rest your head. Being wrapped in strong arms to calm the
tears. Cookie crumbs crushed under the weight of cuddling
bodies. Heavy breathing in the bedroom. An arm around the
waist when out with their friends to keep you close because
you’re nervous to meet them. Tickle fights at four in the
morning. Lip biting and little surprises. Compliments and
massages for sore muscles after a long day. Tracing skin
like fingertips skimming the pages of an open book. Putting
your hand on the back of their head when you throw them
against the wall because it’s fun but you don’t want to hurt
them.
Love is Orange.
Coffee and eggs first thing in the morning. The familiar
smell of peppermint skin and the heady scent of coconut
hair. Bringing back chocolate, just because they were at the
store and you like that brand. An extra toothbrush by the
sink. Wearing the necklace they bought every day, so a piece
of them rests over your heart. The exchange of lock and key.
Coming home. Silly pictures that turn into your lock screen.
Making sure the stage is set for date night. Endless nagging
and annoying house chores. Grocery shopping. Holding their
hair back when they throw up. Making soup when they’re sick.
Face masks and warm baths.
Love is Yellow.
A single lightbulb in a dark closet. Cold champagne and
bubbles in your tummy, filling your head with fuzz. Looking
in the mirror and seeing each other is like looking at
yourself from a different angle. A warm breeze for the
chaotic mind. Sudden laughter in a silent room. A clean love
that follows you. Fluffy highs like soft clouds. Rose petals
and wine. Starry nights under a tent by the fire. Treading
warm water, ripples glowing in the moonlight. Sink or swim,
we go together or we don’t go at all. Opposites only attract
once they’re on the same page.
Love is Green.
I’ll be there in five minutes. Just. Like. That. Where do my
emotions end and yours begin? I’ll take care of it. Three
little words. Every song reminds me of you somehow. You’re
an idiot but you’re my idiot. What are you thinking? I need
space. Why do you rub me the wrong way? You’re an asshole
but I love you. Who is that? Give me your phone. What do you
want from me? I’m not a mind reader. Would you run away with
me? Yes.
Love is Blue.
Vowing to keep each other validated. Choosing to make an
effort despite a fear of intimacy. Screaming, crying,
thunderstorm nights with electric lightning and shocking
words. Stories of past mistakes that make for stronger
future experiences. Past lessons making reappearances as
reminders of how much you’ve grown together. Flirting with
forgiveness and fun, free energy. Smiling through the
sadness.
Love is Violet.
Finding yourself drawn to someone who isn’t your usual type,
that pull from the soul that you’ve met before. A dry,
sarcastic sense of humour and dumb inside jokes that no one
else understands. The way their face lights up when they
talk about their passion. The pitter-patter of tiny paws or
feet. Understanding why it never worked out with anyone
else. Loud parties and quiet anniversaries. Wrinkled skin
and grey hair on the porch swing, summertime tea with
pleasant memories.
Now go back and read all that again. Did you notice that I
didn’t use gendered pronouns?
Strawberries dipped in chocolate,
Candied apples.
Jashwini
Asokan
MY LOVER’S
LIPS
Candied apples.
Sweetness paralleled only by
My lover’s lips.
A wine stained smile.
If sin smells as enticing as her,
The land will see no one pure.
I’m starving, just for a taste.
Will it be a single night of passion?
Or will it be in sickness and health,
Till death do us part;
This genuine warmth, please stay forever.
I would rather die a sinner
By her lips,
Then live a winner,
By your books…
