I'd rather be a forest

I'd rather be a forest

Dreaming myself into being feels like traveling between constellations on a tightrope made from not looking down, walking towards what isn't there, yet.

I'm a queer woman, I've been dreaming myself back into reality ever since I was born weird-human-lady-creature. 

I do wonder if it's possible for all of us to be seen as processes who are actively becoming more human, instead of problems, or pathologies.

Like, genuinely, each person as one version of infinite possibilities.

Good bye-nary to the binary... #queerpuns


There is fluidity, ambiguity, and discomfort in becoming. It doesn't solely require patience, it needs space for acceptance and integration, but ideations flow free from the kyriarchy's hidden in plain sight mouth-minds that look for logical lines of linear progress.

Trauma has no linear lines. The kyriarchy is traumatizing. For some much much worse than others.

Go sit with a dahlia, learn its chaos ways, from tuber expression to contraction. Tend to it exactly the way it needs, and it gives you beauty. Let it rot in the earth, and kill what it naturally offers for free.

I mean. I guess that's a metaphor.


I'm finding that breathing into myself isn't exactly a full inhale/exhale cycle yet, it's more like a 360 degree expansion, pushing into interior walls that never fully come down.

And then realizing that they're not coming down because there are lots of folks outside of them either trying to show me where I should isolate and work harder, or they're looking in mislabeled glory holes to savour strangeness in private, but deny its magic in public.


I've always had to welcome and revere straightness, even though my heart doesn't get it, but I don't make straight people explain their weird lifestyles (that's what they are, right?) to me.


I have to ask myself everyday: is this something that's even possible for a queer woman?

More common than I want to be true, the answer is, as long as people pretend-think I'm straight, but eccentric, it's possible. Or, in certain groups, as long as I'm queer enough it's possible.

And, I know I have the privilege to hide within and behind my straight passing whiteness to find protection. Still, for every single one of us, not being allowed to be whole and uninterrupted is a punishment. 

Still, I'm aware of the ways my white and straight passing privilege usually amounts to just social exclusion, and not death.

I'm also aware there are still places in the world where my queerness, no matter how white and straight passing it appears, is grounds for death. And, it's definitely grounds for some people to be well and truly sexually inappropriate where I live today. Right now. Outside my front door.

I certainly have hidden. I have, survival requires making fucked up choices, and I'm learning the ways in which I still do, while I simultaneously become both mother and child to my wounds.

I'm remembering how to remember to be a decent human being. To other people, to myself. It's just really sad to realize that I behave any other way. That any of us do, really.


Everything I know comes from having to learn myself backwards, through a straight lens with a queer scope.

I used to think I didn't know how to use my vision. 

I did, it was the people who were trying to show me what to do who had no clue. It's almost like I can see more shapes and possibilities than some people. #magicandqueer


I've learned to love the contradictions in straight people, even though straight edges are sharp enough to cut my heart clean; open. I've learned how to love them from every distance, including absence.

Straight people just can't seem to imagine that they're not the puzzle-shape I'm trying to fit into.

I'm the shape of my own unique shattering.

As, I believe, we all are.


Maybe queer just isn't understood by people who aren't queer. I don't even understand myself all the time. I've rarely been given the floor to speak freely without some straight lady giving me their opinion, or some straight man giving me their sexy-eyed fear.

Those soul stealers live internally, in my meanest voices, too.

Sometimes, more often than I love, I haven't known that's what's talking to me until too late, so I try and temper my naivety with contemplative practices and saying fuck an awful lot.

Resting comfortably while the wild feeling-winds blow through me is like heaven and hell and earth and laughter and weeping and rest and disaster all at the same time.

I'm so into it. Definitely socially inappropriately into it.

But, it's indescribably freeing to need, not to be right, but just to be myself. And the only evidence I have is anecdotal, because my soul can't be qualified against another's, no matter how hard I, or anyone else, tries.

Even still, the ground of truth is often impossible to land on. All the shape shifting straight people do sometimes frightens me back into my own silent becoming.

I stay on that tightrope. I don't look back, I don't look down.

I see infinity. I am a star.


Recently, I had a person ask me what happened to the person they knew 10 years ago.

I haven't ever been asked that by anyone other than my mom, so it was a very strange question.  And, as they sat there looking at me, seemingly convinced that using the years I spent playing-it-straight was the motivation I need to seek satisfaction in the world we live in, I realized my expression of pain is both a severance and pinnacle.

I cried for 3 days.

I also called my friends and asked them to tell me about what they love about me right now. 

I asked them to see my pain and name it in themselves, too.

They spoke of being magnificently complex, and magnetically charged. They spoke of anger and sadness and promise and connection.

They did. Because I'm worth it. And so are they. And no one can carry this stuff alone.

Although, not everyone can hold the full weight, yet.


Grief echoes in pain, until love responds in witness.


My vulnerable heart is the most beautiful song when it's sung back to me. 

I hear it everywhere. 

As I keen, the song is shared, the lived and loved experience of grief arrives as comet-tailed star hearts who spark and feed the fire.

We see each other again, for the first time.

Across everything grief will sing from me.

It's so beautiful. I can't help it.


I swam into this world holding my grief. It's so loud, like the noise that comes from a little red breasted robin body. It's getting soft again, but that's because other hearts are adding their accompaniment, and mine is becoming part of a larger song.

Please. When you hear it, keep humming it. 

The earth needs to know you remember your whole self. 

Not your place, but where you belong.

Someone else is there already.

And they live hidden in you, too.


Because I need to hear it sometimes:

Because I need to hear it sometimes: