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
Lips sting as if the kiss had already happened and he lures in on my mind as we sit next on the lessons and even share from the same book. Keeping our silence all the way to lunch which is when we should talk.
I don’t have the courage as I keep looking at him and his scarf is tied too messy as we head towards the lockers, my heart pounding too furiously and I can hear the blood in my ears.
“Oh, another valentine. Someone’s horny.” He smirks and opens it as I just stand with my mouth open and a finger in air. Fuck, fuck, fuck that asshole who is writing to him. I don’t do anything as Jamie just scans the letter many many times before folding it and putting in his shirt pocket. I close my mouth as he turns around on his heel and I solely follow him. I nearly go behind, my thoughts far too shredded with some insane hope. I should’ve never seen that list but as I look at my hands, it would’ve happened anyway. I love him too much as a friend. We’ve known each other since primary.
“Jamie.” I say and he turns, eyes digging into mine. I’m surely not straight. Fuck. But I’ve never been attracted to any men and I can recall Jamie’s sleepy banter that there are people who break your sexuality and I had laughed, flipping him off, pushing his head away-
I always wondered what was it inside that would cause someone to kill anyone and how would the hand not even tremble, how come Kate could do that when I had too many thoughts in my head of cutting someone’s life off and ruining someone’s fate and lover? I wouldn’t want to get killed, while robbing was a different story, Jamie just said that it started off as need and then progressed, the style a bit too glamorous and the fact that nothing could be done when you were in exile in society, when all the votes were against you and he still remained quiet on too many things, like why he had left home and even on Kate he still seemed silent.
And we head out, a suitcase with gathered things with Jamie, as he carries it and he has a different coat, a plaid one and quickly glances at me as we head to the train station. He tells me we will have to come back tomorrow as well, he studies the schedule, asks for the tickets and I wonder far too much, as I watch him walk around the station and throw a bottle of water from Boots.
“There’s too many things you do for love.” He says, looking at me darkly, his hair a bit out of place, as his eyes darken and I wonder if that’s how you look when you sell your soul to the devil. And I wonder if Kate hadn’t died would I always be the lover on the side, as we buy the tickets with the last money and I wonder why he had chosen something as expensive as that.
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