I don't want to be known for my writing or clothes.
I want to be known for my anger.
Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.
My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.
My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.
The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.
And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.
And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.
Because our anger is valid.
We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.
Jamie. Gay. Genderfluid. Polyamorous.
Cursor made by: jamiecooksays.tumblr.com
I honestly think that life is pushing me to the tip of suicide.
I look behind, to see him give me a soft wave and nod to look back at the teacher and I sigh, trying not to fiddle even more with the notebooks, my mind humming far too loudly and the clock which has no sound, is far too loud in my head, muting everything and I just keep replaying nightmares in my head which had been last night, spitting out blood in the sink and noticing how all my temples had gone gray.
“It shouldn’t be hard.” Jack told me as he arrived at four a.m. parents no longer caring and all under a healthy doze of Xanax, waiting for me to pack my bags, but Jack insisted that this should still be the place where the ritual of getting rid of the past should be and he proceeded to dye my hair until there was pounding on the door and we emerged, just for mom and dad to think we fucked.
Jack waved at them and they prayed that Meg was indeed his girlfriend, as I would smoke outside, Jack scratching the back of his head, thinking-
“I can’t take you in.”
The question is more than plain?
Where do I begin?
Where do I start? Where does the dysphoria start and where does my desire to be with Jamie end?
It’s not even about myself, it’s a mixture of indeed myself and where do I fit in with Jamie. It’s about the anxiety of oneself and the other, since by the end of the day when you want to be in a relationship-
it’s both and it’s where two sexualities collide and not even being sure of myself, makes me anxious as I look at him as he comes back, quickly shooting a glance at Alex, who I seem to be avoiding and this seems to be a morning of confessions and I look around at all the cis men, not feeling any different, I still hold the same feelings, the ease and the attraction is all there.
I don’t think he exists and I’m mental and my body could be solely going numb by itself. My bed seems rougher than usual and my mouth is now fully numb and I wonder how much will I even last, I barely manage to eat cereal, my hands shaking whenever I try to cook and the city seems bleak and it ends up with me glancing at every clock, at every watch to make sure that I am nowhere near the time and I wonder what would happen if I stay inside, but it’s too strong and with a spinning head I should still head out-
and I do, the sprinklers already on me and I watch him, grin, twisting and I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t his eyes the colour of the blood I’d be running and he doesn’t speak, the sprinklers making me wetter and I can’t help but keep staring at him-
What is the deal then?
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