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
For some unknown reason I sit in the local, which Jamie usually drags everyone to, because he doesn’t get anyone in his way, everyone who wanted dragged their friends already to admire from afar and have noticed that he’s still drinking the same beer or wine everyone else is. I just try to hold myself from thinking that Kate would most likely be cheating on Jamie and I’m not even sure what the boundaries of their marriage are and my own.
I order some beer, playing with the table by tracing my nails down the wood, wondering how much would they chip in the end. I get far too anxious, either dunking the beer down or not touching it at all and always ending up with the same anxiety running me down and over. I can’t even think of Kate properly, the misery of the past weeks replaced with some screech of tension and my whole body impatient.
I shouldn’t have chosen the window location.
It’s a brief moment of loosening and her falling right through my fingers, as I watch her from the side of the stage and I no longer crave for cigarettes, nothing to numb out the noises which come from the stage, the mumbled and the laughter which I’ve no longer grown to see and I keep watching them and she’s told me what was going to happen and I don’t even look away, I keep staring, now hating the song for much longer than I ever have and they all stumble as if they are not aware, as if Jack is still in his his high school fantasy
and suddenly I’m the one who is old enough
and their lips meet for me to see and I feel my bottom lip ache from the bite and I just grab a guitar from the rack, my whole body shaking-
I don’t smash everything even if I feel destructive and I see someone ask me how am I and I don’t reply, just going to the bathroom and I feel my shoulders shake far more sooner than anything which comes out from my eyes and she’s the one whose always walked away and I keep flinging her in anger away and away, let my bones become nothing but material and I could see myself dissolving, all tears gone much before I’ve even expected them to even start and I just walk back onstage, joining
It’s the noise which pierces and stings, it’s some daft desire as life seems to be bleak, anxiety no longer even pulling me together to do things, it being rolled in by all bed covers and being under the bed to resemble a monster, seems like the only big opportunity to actually grasp.
Everything seems to be wrong, that even jealousy doesn’t even tickle me and I have no courage to go back somewhere I even should be in.
Life is too bleak and suicide seems like something even bleaker, why would you throw something away which hasn’t even irritated me, it’s just some dull void, which is just there and the window is always open, letting noises in and I let the knocks go louder and I do eventually get yanked out of bed by the extra key, pretty much yanked by my pajamas and I can hear his boots on the empty pizza boxes.
listen, i don’t know about you, but the only people I know who actually enjoy...
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