Source: What’s the Science? | Trans-Parenting
This is a good resource page for anyone to be able to find good sources to help explain what our current technological state reveals about the physical side of gender-orientation and the reasons for this particular point on the continuum of the intersection of gender and biology.
Take a look…it will settle you if you are uncertain, and affirm you if you are already an ally.
Yesterday was the strangest day I have lived in a while…
…it started off with the strangest and most confusing comment I have had directed at me in a long time, one I am STILL confused about the motivation of the commenter…that hadda do with the topic of personality type (see my thoughts about that over here at this link: Personality Types
And then the rest of the day exemplified the stressors that get me spinning.
They don’t bear repeating, but wow was the day confusing…
One thing that is really stressful to me is when I am in the middle of two competing needs, each one to which I represent “help”, and each one is equally valid…wow is that hard, because what generally happens is that I get caught between a rock and a hard place…
If I meet the one need, the other one will sit there and testify that “Charissa is not here to help”, and if I stay with the other one then the first will go hungry and embody lack and THAT one will say that “Charissa is not here to help”.
Each one will think that I am simply inactive and have nothing to do so and thus am a resource to plug into the leaky dyke to staunch the leak.
And my perspective is that every moment of my day is scheduled, and generally the time I get to do other things I find in what are thought of as the wee hours…so when the two needs begin to compete? I am acutely aware that it is a lose-lose for me…meet one and not meet the other or meet the other and not meet the one.
Sigh…
And there was one of those experiences at the end of the day that was so humiliating and embarrassing that it made me wanna crawl into a hole in the ground and just disappear…let’s just say that something happened that hasn’t happened to me since kindergarten…
sigh
I’m often told I’m confident
(like the march of blazing sun
across the hills of night
awakening each day)
I’m told I look like rushing waves
that roll in from the sea
and pounce upon the sand
in joyful swelling sounds
This makes me laugh inside my heart
because I’m more like fog
that silent moves unsure
which way it wants to go
But still committed to the march
inexorable and slow
to be true to myself
in soft embrace sold out
to be completely there
and wrapped around all things
I cherish in the hug
of insubstantial presence
there, and yet untouched.
it’s a crushing weight
tangible presence
part and parcel
of the essence
of this thing
just like red is
the truth of blood
and copper is
the air exhaled
by laughing lungs
it’s the love I feel
for your fire-self
your glowy soul
alive and strong
and destined here
to speak with laughs
to laugh with song
to sing in truths
to love in speed
to linger ever
as the crushing weight
here in my chest
upon my heart
this bloody living
love of you
| — | nayyirah waheed |
“Feelings are just visitors, let them come and go.”
Hmmm…this may be true…
…if the visitors are Jehovah’s Witnesses on your doorstep!!
giggles
If you seek to extend grace and love to cover over a multitude of sins, the worst thing you can do is undercut that extension by talking about it and pointing it out. Right?
This weekend has been excruciating, because the long-awaited and much dreaded article outing me to the entire world was published. And I am letting it stand uncommented on, because the person who wrote it apparently needs this as they deal, process, and move forward in becoming.
But it is awful having my voice stolen from me…it is awful being portrayed as a cruel caricature of who I am and who I was…it is tragic to see the consequences of what I chose and lived twisted so tragically as life spins on by and the gravity of the Fall pulls everything to that fierce collision with nothingness…and it is heartbreaking to see the person that I literally would instantly die for, right now this moment, if it would restore them to wholeness, flail around trying to recover their bearings and watch as they grapple with emotions and choices and basically just suffer a sort of death process.
The place this article was published did not contact me (though if they had, I would have said to go ahead…my loved one needs to speak unfettered)…the things that were written, well let’s just say that one person’s account sounds right until another person in a situation gives their lived experience, and then things are usually a lot more complicated and delicate in determining “what happened”.
Mostly what happened? The binary. The binary punished me from the beginning of my life, it trapped my parents into seeing me as someone I wasn’t…it tore my soul in half and left the only option forward for me a dissociation from self and adopting performance as my currency and agency in the world…it left a bloody gaping void within me that never ever could heal, and in which the Love of God was sufficient, but only just…it led to the birth of children who deserved more and got less in spite of me trying to give them everything…
What happened was a flawed imperfect person full of hope and love and wanting only to have kids and love them and raise them up into life did her best in the skin and role of a man…and is now vilified and excoriated for this…what happened is that I was born in a time and place and culture, and practiced the things that I thought were right and true and proper, and those so at odds with what I know now, what I matured into, grew into, and yet how does that undo things that happened 30 years ago?
And what happened was so much pain in my decision to transition that an entire narrative had to shift to account for the horror and the loss of a father…and I read of things, and am painted in ways that just do not match up with what I lived, what I remember, what emails and letters say to me, what other people who knew us and were around us a lot recall…
What happened was my dysphoria and depression and despair did indeed affect my heart and soul, and that affected everyone around me, and likely was the metaphorical equivalent to belts and abuse so does it really even matter if I never did the actual things I am accused of doing? Actually no…it doesn’t matter that I never did them, because it is clear to me that I was them…poisonous, toxic, radioactive, damned for being absent and cursed for being present and above all accountable for every last ill in those lives so precious to me.
I never really understood before why God’s answer to the horror of the Fall was to come as Jesus to this world, and suffer and die…I do now though. Because there are no words that I can say that would explain it, justify it, make it right, make it better, disappear it…all I could do would be to simply die in their place…
…and if I could do that, I would want it to happen hidden, without anyone knowing, and the provision of that death simply being wholeness and happiness for my hearts…
I love you, hearts…I will grieve until the day grief itself is satisfied and all things are made new. Say on. Whatever you need, whatever you want, whatever you must.
I only ask Mama, please hold me close and sustain me in Your Love.
The writing of a moon
engraven on this water
and carried by the winds
into your heart beyond
the reach of tongue or pen…
this is my ever burden
my sentence that I carry
forever in my bones
| — | Jorge Luis Borges |
She talks like cliffs,
speaking words of grey granite
and loose limestone that
stand against blue skies
and grab onto puffy clouds.
She’s exalted over valleys, far distant in chasms
between the green and the happy streams
and places there beside her words
where eagles spin and scream
and echo in the sunset’s gleam.
She is low meadows laying soft.
She is all signification, all there
but you must have faith to listen
because she speaks in silence
louder than Beethoven.
She is not easy or attainable
but she will not hurt you, just
make you count the cost
and if you don’t, then rest assured
you will hurt yourself.
I love her in the mountain air
and in the meadow mist
both lively and lazy.
She is my best friend, and
more solid than all the earth.
what do I
do with all
the loss?
I never knew
the absence
of things
could weigh
so heavy,
could loom
so large.
Truly the Pearl
of Great Price
does indeed
cost everything
| — | Mathias Malzieu |
| — | Sogyal Rinpoche,
The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying |
…I recommend a time later where you attend to nothing else but the afterthoughts.
Hey. Prayer is a conversation. How can you have a relationship with They To Whom you pray if you do not stop to listen to Their answers?
“My baby!
Mom is so sorry.
I am so sorry
to make this decision.
My son!
I hope you to
meet great parents,
and I am very, very sorry .
I don’t deserve to say a word.
Sorry, sorry, and I love you my son.
Mom loves you more
than anything else.
I leave you here
because I don’t know
who your father is.
I used to
think about
something bad,
but I guess
this box is safer
for you.
That’s why
I decided
to leave you here.
My son,
Please forgive me.”
Sometimes I say the same things to my own children, but there is no answer, nothing but the wind whispering in the trees and memories that stain my heart red.
…but now? Even in the face of huge loss, no…especially in the face of these losses, this is never me anymore.
Thank God for HRT. Thank God for Their Word, affirming me in my existence and Their Love for me…
Thank God for my true friend and sister and safe place to fall (you know who you are…always)
No, this is not me anymore, thank God!
The other day I was marvelling
as I thought about Grace Kelly,
floating above the surface of the earth
with every step and every glance
and every smile.
She was timeless,
she was a rock and a river
all at the same time,
such redwood-tall poise
and ocean-depth intrigue.
She was full of herself
in the best of ways,
Grace.
And here I sit breathing
this same air she might have breathed
and wondering what chance in hell
I have if death actually managed
to pull her feet down to earth.
Nevertheless, I hop
each stride I take,
kicking one foot out and up
to step on that invisible riser
like Grace did…
and I try to walk like Grace Kelly,
on the air like Christ
on the waters.
after a storm the air
scrubbed and electric
and crackling with ancient
newness, fresh like a goddess
reborn in wonder and at home
moves across my face
and into my lungs
like eternity alive
and shouting
singing
after we clear the air
and our words sparkle
fresh, cracks highlighted
by tears like raindrops
offered in falling curtains
of feeling, of love, of joy
lingering slightly stained
crimson like liquid crystal hearts
it’s then we see each other
again for the first time ever
and our hearts say hello you
while our eyes scream missed you so
and our voices twine again in song
like the sound of rivers
with the light of mountains
in the fresh forever air
in this fresh forever air
it lays there, bloated
in between when you
and the other person
connected and laughed
(or that’s what you thought)
and when you speak
and your heart falls
out and open
on the floor
with the inscription
would you like
to come over
for dinner and wine?
eyes narrow,
furrowing brows
and glance off
to the side
and it shifts
and it’s game over
flowers fade
the smell of smoke
and burnt cookies
lingering
I’ve been thinking about
repetition and returns
and things you get
to do all over.
Heart beats
breaths
sleeping
waking
thousands, maybe
even millions
of times?
Watching seasons change
Solstices turning
Great storms breaking
Epic bike rides
and train trips
down the perfect
silver tracks gleaming
like a brilliant arrow
shot into the golden
distant beckoning horizon.
Christmases
Thanksgivings
Birthdays
vintages of wine
harvests
You might get
100 trips
around the sun
if you are lucky
if you are lucky
100 times
and we treat
each trip
like it’s a heartbeat
or a breath
or a short night’s sleep
when it’s really
that train trip
down the silver tracks
into the golden end
100 trips, alas
100 trips, oh glory
100 trips so glad
How about you, Constance? What transitions are you facing in life?
They are worth the suffering.
a foggy night in late summer
seems like such a strange thing,
seeping up from the ground
like bathwater draining in reverse
we go walking in this cool
clammy oddly warm chill
orange under streetlights
and red under starlight
and I sit and watch us walk
away thru the rising mist
and wonder how we got here
to this place of living bliss…
was Number 2,000!!
And it was for my dearest darling…my one.
Love you, Baby!
with my all
I sat down by the fire
in the middle of the roses
planted all around
and fragrant with buzzy bees
so busy in the dusk.
The air shimmered
as you approached
skimming across the grass
like a clipper ship
under full sail and
high on the sea.
And when you sat down,
beside me there in
the crackling fragrant
breezy busy air
it was like the entire
universe had come home
and I was at the center
of all things.
I’m pretty lonely, now
that I am not in
the juggling circle
with all your other eggs
tossing around frantic
and always on the edge
of splatting on the stones.
I just got tired of the suspense.
I got bored with the panic
of will she catch, will she miss
and that somehow miraculous
growing of another arm
there just long enough
not to hold but to toss
back up again spinning
in the cool bracing breeze.
And the worst times
when I hadda catch myself
and then pretend that you did
so you wouldn’t drop you
splatting on stones
and seeing that a huge
quantity of love diluted
by a huger number of recipients
is just about like no love at all.
So…I sit now…watch you juggle
and see the eggs move round
and occasionally I snatch one away
so you can twirl just the most important.
I can’t do that thing anymore,
where I am something to be
managed, parcelled, watered?
I wanna be ground to your feet
soil to your roots, sun to your leaves!
I want you to be breeze neath my blades
and rain on my petals and sun synergistically
all around me and warm.
So go ahead and keep in rhythm,
there is nothing over here, don’t reach.
Eggs hatch, and become real,
and you can quit imitating
a windmill and become instead
a waterwheel and wonder turning you always.
Across the ocean, you,
there without drowning
and I don’t know how
that happened, because
I grieve and take on water
in sputter-gulps and gasps,
dog paddle-fighting every wave.
But this your journey you have chosen
alone and must…choose alone.
I regret so deeply that you also choose
to live this life alone as well.
But I have choices too
and I choose Spring
even though my favorite
season is Fall.
I will always be right here
to offer you swimming lessons,
yes, always and forever…
but I will not drown with you
because how could I see Spring
return to claim her crown?
So instead I sit and watch waves
in this unexpected storm, this fat
cloudburst of grief unplanned
and out of budget.
I grieve the living when the living lie
in tattered shadows of what could be.
I wish it were different, but nonetheless,
I am okay, in spite of all these griefs
unplanned.
Thus shall I let go
(like trees release their breath
and birds release their flight)
of all that keeps us bound.
Blood by blood
and hope by hope
and I swim, harder,
faster now.
Because my grief
is my life boat,
I know I cannot drown.
But I still hurt for you,
your loss your sadness
crumpled, misshapen
in all this…and this,
most of all I hurt
for the aloneness
of your journey
you unmoored
from past and future
dark and just beyond
the curvature of your
moon so dark tonite.
But tho I hurt,
though I have
no tears left
I am alive
and I embrace
my own life
as my own
and mindful,
vested in
this journey
that I take
and undertake
at last.
Waves in steely oceans
of sandy sorrow and me
bound by blood and bone
to you alone, forever
in red-stains wrapping white
chains soft and firm with
my gallant foolish choice
to summon forth
a fragment of God.
Before I know it
I’m on the edge
of another wave,
silver, falling green
wave of grief
when I recall
you have never
died…you are here,
struggling to get
through your own
waves, and…searching
for the way
to survive into
your life in spite
of me.
Those dreams I held for you
(I hold them for you)
they keep me in that still place
and I fight it when those feelings
blow away as easily as my breath,
They were my dreams anyway,
not yours, and life — yours —unfolds
under your nose, a mole emerging
from our messy lawn of dandelions
and daisies and bluegrass…and your dreams?
I dunno, they taste like a conjured normal
new and unfamiliar to us both
I hadn’t planned on grieving.
It just sorta happened, sorta blossomed
like a small grey cloud appearing
against that impossibly happy blue sky
while life scurried by, rushed across
the intersection of Existence and Vine
and the fluffy cloud became clouds
and clouds and they clawed their way across
that untouched sky so blue so blue,
bluer than my heart or my breath.
Your body is still warm
(but oh so cold inside me)
your mind whirring on
(but seized-up inside my soul)
your voice chatters (in my mind)
like squirrels or gears
in someone else’s ears,
while your lungs billow
poisons and false memories
in out in out in out in
and my grief sucks in
and my grief blows out
and so on…
it’s like the instantaneous arrival
the spontaneous appearance
the epiphanous eventuality
in one thunderous moment
of dull leaden light that clashes
and smothers and chokes out
everything else…
that moment when fear
puts on its mask of hate
and joins the ritual circle of death,
eyes wide shut,
and I am othered
once again
it was eyes,
everywhere each one
attached to a beak, each beak
trilling so shrilly, chattering
in clakkety chirp-chirruping
in brackish raucous screams
loserloserloserloserloser
this forest was once a place
of wonder and the night
so full of promise but now,
it’s like the stars have fallen
from the sky and become
these birds, these birds with eyes
and beaks and nothing to sing,
just screams in a trackless forest
with a past turned out to be a dream
and a future that’s just a strip mine
yet unzipped, undug, yet torn open
and a present consisting of merely
the sound of these eyes so sharp
and beaks blunt just like red clubs
and no melody down here in sight
Two viral photos from this weekend destroy the myth of ‘post-racial’ America: On left: a Cleveland cop pulls a gun on two unarmed black women after a minor traffic accident. On right: a white man at a Confederate rally grabs his gun in front of cops and they tell him to calm down.
Cleveland cop: http://bit.ly/1M1iw3a
pulling gun on cop: http://bit.ly/1JIioFy
This is real…you get treated differently based on your skin
All…this is a post from a tumblr blog I follow, not my own writing, but her concluding question echoes many things I have written about, namely that all the “Remember the Dead Trans-girls” rallies change absolutely nothing.
We don’t want to be remembered.
We want to live…be fruitful and share life.
I don’t want you to say my name when I am killed…I want to say my own name in the zest of life! Without fear of attack, policing, othering or rejection simply for being born.
I echo Jen’s question: since last weekend’s events, what has changed?
PS: Language alert! If you are offended or defiled by scatalogical language, proceed with caution! F-bombs and other such things are in evidence!
Maybe if…Maybe….maybe if every man who has ever hired a trans escort, if every boy who has ever beat off to trans porn, if all the guys I and thousands of others have hooked up with via Craig’s List, if the millions who fetishize our bodies, who enjoy us on our knees in bathrooms, who press us against hotel windows, who lay with us in our beds, if the men who adore me and my sisters, but only behind closed doors, would STAND THE FUCK UP AND SPEAK OUT…maybe 21 year old women just enjoying an evening out with friends wouldn’t be beat to death.
Maybe if all of you who read this, our allies and friends and colleagues and family, would call out when others make jokes at our expense, even when we’re not around, if you’d tell advertisers and producers and journalists and writers and comics that you’re not okay with them making trans women nothing but the punchline of jokes or tragic tossaways, that you know us, that we’re not disposable….maybe groups of people would stop feeling so free to harass me and my sisters, maybe crowds wouldn’t just laugh when a man spits at me, or just watch when two young men chase me down the street yelling “shemale”…maybe if you ALL stood up and said enough, maybe a young woman just being herself wouldn’t be beat to death in the streets of the supposedly best place on earth to just be yourself.
Maybe if all the gay men who act as if equality means marriage, if all the white feminists who only serve those that look like them, if all the queers who drop “TWOC” like a shibboleth but don’t know or talk to or walk beside any actual trans women of color…maybe if all of you saw what was happening here and how your actions allow it, how every moment of silence, of waiting for people of color to start the conversation about race …maybe this child could have enjoyed a few more years of being beautiful among us.A 21 year old was beat to death in our streets. It happened because she is a woman, and of color, and transgender. It happened because our men won’t admit they love us, because our friends aren’t speaking out against the thousand little dehumanizing actions of others, because our own “LGBT” community isn’t comfortable talking about race and class.
This has to change. Now.
I wrote this two years ago.
What’s changed?
It’s the ruin and the wreck
of what has been, what might have been
that stands so stark, abrupt against
the soft caress of night and in
the harsh daylight that shows the stress
and strain and bite of time…
so cruel, so kind
in dismantling artifice
and taking more to leave it less
and thus confer a grace upon
the mess of pride and prejudice
there…in the gentle wind’s soft kiss,
that which remains and sanctified
by tears from skies so gray and eyes
so blue and thus made holy in
the loss they gain substance
and stretch across
our hearts
our spirits
our souls
that yearn forever,
ah forever
it will burn
there…that fire
and those bones that burn so bright
in the ruin and the wreck
of what has been, what might have been
become what is
If you hear people from my past speak of me.
Keep in mind they are speaking of a person
they don’t even know any more.
Come, my love…
walk out in the river with me on waters
still and soft beneath our souls
and slightly giving underneath our feet
the surface dips and we will sink
but never past our ankles, just deep
enough to get our hearts wet, soaked
in mysteries of our journey-dance
and underneath the Moon-Glow Glance
and we will carry our essence there
into the river deep and swift
and we upon the surface light
and walking in this river night
upturn your cup! pour you out quick!
and I will do the same with you
and mingle…waters, breath, life
time, no time…mingle, ever mingle
oh love, my love
walk out in the river with me on waters
still and soft beneath our souls
and slightly giving underneath our feet
how they spring from waves
like weasels going *POP*
slamming the waves
like children splashing in *puddles*
and then how they beach themselves
like angry sad *prophets*
telling us something
in suicide swims
onto the wet beach
and gravity’s grave
Teach us to realize how short our lives are. Then our hearts will become wise.
— Psalm 90:12 NIRV
I am the one who waits, the one in love
I cannot help but be the one who loves and waits.
Sometimes I want to be the one
who does not wait, who never hurts
I want to play the part of never waiting.
I try to get there late, busy myself, lose track of time
but I always lose this game and forget my lines.
When I go elsewhere I find myself here,
punctual, always on time
(or even ahead of time)
that’s saying something, being ahead of time
and nothing to do but be who I am,
the lover…the one
who waits
(inspired by Roland Barthes)
Every single time…
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apartI carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
— E.E. Cummings
“I’m dead” she said.
“Dead?” asked her honey?
“What do you mean?”
“I am slain at last
in the icy grip of
your death hand glare,
and solo icicle silences!”
She fairly dripped martyr blood
from every precisely chosen word
weighted just so and
freighted with layers…
“Ah” her honey replied, nodding.
They peddled on in silence
each one a universe of laughter
inside the heart they share.
There is a man I know of…very intelligent. Studies lots of things, but most particularly studies things that can be used as tools to dismantle the faulty thinking or lack of thinking by people who are professed christians but likely are unable to articulate their faith and what it really means to them.
From the heights to the depths and the breadth of what he can conceive of in his mind, he sits, comfortable and relaxed, a man’splainin’ fool. He can fight off any attack…he can account for anything encountered…
…inside the sphere he grants and allows.
But there is an outside. And of this place no mind can conceive, and of the Being that inhabits this place that is no place, well…it is gonna be such a shock when we are given eyes to see, and faces to be seen…
It’s a good thing They are benevolent!
Giggles…
I am mindful of The Last Battle and the dwarves inside that dark shed who do not and cannot know of “an outside”.
Hey…I have glimmers only, but really I have NO IDEA what that outside is because the glimmers I have are by definition intelligible to me and thus derivative of my own interior experience.
But it’s there…and the stick fighting approach to encountering Them on That Day will be comically irrelevant.
So Shocked.
| — | Aristotle |
The Religious Hypocrite has understood this corollary:
“To appear perfect, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.”
The Religious Hypocrite thinks holiness is a matter of doing…do these certain things…avoid doing these other things, and you will be holy.
But holiness is not something you do. It is something you are, something imputed to you as a gift that you become…and once you have become that, you are that regardless of doing…just like your child is always your child whether they do certain things or don’t do certain things.
If you find yourself assessing your standing with God on the basis of what you have done, or refrained from doing?
Then you are living out the Religious Hypocrite’s corollary. 
and down here
in the glimmery dark
and soft among the reeds
and rushes, by the river
i’m surrounded by these
soft and liquid sacks
of living light that float
right by me in the night
and hide behind the day
while i sing the song
of being, everlasting
it thrums deep in my bones
and calls out to them there…
…floating in the air
in the glimmery night
and soft in downy dark
How many is it gonna take to push you to the place where you yourselves will step up? One a day? Would that do it?
Mostly, people don’t realize
time is a living thing, a tree
whose roots stretch back
to the beginning (and before?)
whose branches reach high,
broad and all around into
the “what-is-coming-what-may-be”
and we the fruit hanging there
swaying in the breezes
of the breath of Jesus
and Mama at His side
and all creation spinning out
inside this circle dance…
see, the past flows up, into the future
the future slides down, slides deep
sinks into the roots and makes its
transformations silver, shining
or is reclaimed and overcome, choked off
and laid, still born into the red dirt slick and packed.
and fruit? tossed and kissed in space and growing
in the currents from beneath and from above?
fed by rivers subterranean, drinking from
the rain that falls down from the clouds
of all that lies ahead…
we fruit are sweet, or bitter, or savory
in the grip of God and how the past is eaten
does predict the future…
but what the future holds
can quickly change the past
in just an eyelash twinkle
and we all are changed!!
Ahh…I hold to the past
and cling tight to my future
and throw my arms wide to the sides
and hug all “what-may-comes”
into my heart so soft, so strong
and thus shall my heart ever sing
the song of great becoming
and the song of all forgetting
do you get it now?
nothing is “just itself”
nothing at all,
least of all the past. 
take your tender thumbs and softly
brush my rosy tear stained cheeks,
tears tender, like moonlight dripping
silky down the screen of night.
touch my face in quiet splendour
electric under starkissed eyes
and hungry for your sighs, your breath
oh Love, deliver me from death
and wreath me in your smoulder-heart
and cushion me against your breast
and hold me close and safe and sound
oh touch my soul, me, lost but found
and cricket song will fall and rise
and breezes kiss my yearning thighs
so softly, take your tender thumbs
and make time stop, oh, strike me dumb.
those pieces you gave me
so jagged, so bitter, so shocking,
and time faithful and patient,
and your heart time’s ally
and washing them in your tears
(those pieces)
until they’ve become worn
and smooth, savory, building blocks
and yeah, badges of honor to a heart
broken and rising?
*those pieces*
see how they fit inside me?
see that place with eyes all around
and ears attached to eyes
and hands cradling, treasuring,
and no mouth in sight?
__no_words__
see my heart welcome them,
those pieces?
they have joined my treasure room.
and written above the door they live in
is this word:
Precious
ima walk beside you
and carry them (you)
and give them back to you (them)
as you need to spend.
sometimes buying forgetfulness
sometimes buying remembrance
im so glad to be your friend
my friend
| — | Jean Cocteau |
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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