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
My hand is still numb in the places he’s touched me and my mind plays tricks on me, saying he’s here when he’s not and I keep lighting cigarettes as they keep going out by themselves as the hours seem to be pushing me towards 1 a.m. again as I actually bother doing pancakes and I feel seeing him as if I should leave a plate for him and not touch it, as it is for the dead.
As I sit I just pull the curtains open and I stare and as I look down to cut the pancakes, I see from the corner of my eye a gray fox jumping in and as soon as I look up it’s gone, but I feel watched, as if he’s standing against the window sill and as I look down the curtains move and that’s when I close them, stuffing my face with pancakes before fear takes my hunger away.
I feel a brush against my neck and I really wish I had alcohol.
One minute early the noise comes back and I yank my jacket off the doorknob and pull it on fast, jumping two stairs at a time, as the noise gets faster and harsher and now up the stairs to see no children this time, just blobs of white, the geese now with blood spilling out from their necks, croaks coming out, as the man has his body leaned back on the bench, head leaned back as well, eyes closed and the geese blood stops spilling and the gray fox from earlier strolls by, rubbing by the man’s feet and I notice his high heeled shoes. He opens his eyes, the blood entirely gone and all noise erupts as the blurbs get whiter and whiter until he smiles softly and it’s daylight again
[gets extremely offended when anyone implies my favorite characters are...
kk going to bed night guys xxx
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