A New Day

a new day

my eyes peel open.

they lift the weight of my sleep

with no small effort.

bleary vision clears.

6 P.M. , violet sun-set.

i'm awe-struck, briefly.

Apathy bleeds through.

oblivion waits for me.

i go back to bed.

So this isnt a poem or a song or anything, its a vent i guess.

If you think its ok to ask a stranger anything about their genitalia, or frankly even talk about that in the first place if you dont know them, you are a fucking asshole and a creep.

Im literally at work just trying to eat lunch, and this queer guy, (who i thought seemed sweet), offers me a swedish fish. I say omg thank you thats so kind, and he follows that up with "hey, youre a guy right?"

I say "no im actually transfem", (and its fine that he asked that honestly, we all make misteps and occasionally assume things), to which he replied, "where you born with a penis?"

Ive spoken literally 2 dozen words to this person. Literally the smallest of small talk. He knew i was at work. And when i asked him "dont you think its weird to ask someone about their genitalia" he said, "isnt that the same as asking if you're a guy?"

Suffice to say my appitite is ruined and i walked away after that. I dont know what else to say now. So yea. Fuck that guy, dont do that.

My heart's silent scream.

You've never heard it have you?

Do you understand?

Witness me my friend.

Years I've been crying for help.

Very few have heard.

You scroll far away

while I fester next to you.

"hey, look at this meme..."

You meet god and she's mostly dead fish. You ask her why and she says most of the world is dead fish, and she's made herself to appeal to the most common denominator, the everyman funnyman comedy show that runs for eleven seasons but with the entire universe in mind. You ask her how much of the dead fish is your fault, she says it's far less than you'd think, in the grand scheme of things. You ask her if you matter at all. If you can do anything. She shrugs her rotting shoulders and says mattering is a made-up concept, like life, but sure, you can matter if you want to, on some scale. She has many scales. She doesn't know what you mean by 'anything', but you can do everything you can. You ask her if it's enough. She says there's no base requirement for deserving to exist. She's smoking a joint and the smoke filtering out of her gills gathers and forms gas giants and red dwarfs. You ask her if there's any hidden secrets of the universe you should know and she says it's not a secret if she tells, plus it's fun to let you figure it out yourself. You ask her if any of your questions were right questions and she says you worry about being right so much it might keep you from fucking around, which is as close to meaning of life as she ever bothered to make. You don't ask but she says she loves your hair, also your whole being, also your planet. She says she figured out what love is yesterday and is trying it out, which explains the ten thousand rainbows and sudden influx in rains of fish. She offers you a drag of her joint and you wake up half past midnight behind a chain restaurant clutching a smoked salmon. The new stars are winking like they're in on some joke and you're sure if you try hard enough you'll remember what it is.

I asked to show you

my pain, old & beautiful.

Your disinterest shows.

My soul sparkles like

a desert of diamonds, or,

a sea of glitter.

"That's nice my darling."

You didn't look up to see

my shine, fades again.

please stay, even at my bad times>>