I keep trying to write something to show you how much I care something so beautiful and heartfelt it rivals, no, surpasses that which touch communicates wordlessly. But look, already I’m falling back on grandiose phrasing, anxious to craft each phrase to perfection. You’ve said before my words are like strawberries and cream. Are these words that simple? Are these words that humble? I don’t think so. Why is this so difficult?

but it’s not going well I guess what I really want to say is: I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m one filament away from breaking from my body completely. I’m sorry it’s so hard for me to be present sometimes. It’s not you. It’s never you. It’s just me. Did the ancient oracles have such trouble drawing their minds back to earth? I don’t know. So, I’m sorry.

as you can see I mean, what I really want to say is that I think our love is perfect. It’s not so dramatically passionate or foolishly tragic that we’ll go down in history with Romeo and Juliet and all those other star-crossed lovers, but who wants to be star-crossed anyway? I like our life. I like the lazy mornings, the video games, the joking and teasing and cuddling

because none of these words are perfect What I think I’m trying to say is that I never knew love could be like this. I knew you could love someone so much it hurt, but I never realized love could also buoy you up, make you feel weightless and free. I never knew love could make you feel timeless, either, like you have always been and will always be living within that perfect moment.

and you deserve perfect. I guess I should just say: I love you.


when the storm surges and the waves crash, I will be your rock, I say
and you reply, but rock erodes until it’s no longer recognizable as what it once was
I do not argue, because that is true; even stone is not eternal

but you forget I have studied the earth, its cycles, its processes
and so I know that while stone is not eternal, its matter is
and can neither be created nor destroyed

if your storms weather me, I will become sand on the ocean floor
and perhaps from there the earth will push me up against the land
or perhaps drag me deep beneath its melting crust

either way I will transform, become a mountain once again
and when the wind and rain and time begin to carve me away
I will welcome that change as I welcome yours


When I first imagined her, only ever out of the corner of my eye, she was nothing like you. She was pale and fragile, like someone made out of glass and rose petals. I don’t know why I saw her like this, so demure and ethereal, when I felt no pull to that model of femininity. I suppose my subconscious had absorbed too many of society’s fairytale princesses with their skin white as snow and their lips red as blood. And that was fine for a time, to imagine her clothed in spider’s-silk and dew when she was something I never dared touch or hold. And how could I? I would have shattered her delicate form.

Sometimes I laugh, remembering her as I watch you. You could not be more her opposite, though you and she are one in the same. No fairytale princess, you; you are my warrior goddess, scarred and calloused, tattooed and pierced, muscled and curved. You’re not snow white or blood red, you’re black, brown, amber, bronze. No one could lock you away in a tower or fell you with one bite of a poisoned apple. You’d cut off your hair and use it as a rope; you’d trick the evil queen and defeat the huntsman; you’d befriend the wolf and run with him through the woods. You’re like nothing I ever imagined, like no one I dared hope for. My knight. My warrior. My goddess.


these days I tag everything
queer and pagan
because there’s no untangling them now
the hunger for skin is the hunger for blessing
and the surrender of body is the surrender of soul
and all the doors are open now
and all our arms are open now
and all the paths are open now
thus love is worship
worship is love
and I am yours
and hers
and his
and theirs


Like wheat from the chaff, we have sieved out those who could not understand; the leader who was a coward; the brother who was an oppressor; the unremarkable others who could not recognize the truth of divinity. There are not many left who are privy to this inner world anymore. Only one, really, and she saw clearly from the beginning. She saw to the scribe’s inner heart, past the Sun’s mask, through the Moon’s shadows. She understands the necessity of the Great Round, the ever-turning Wheel. She understands the necessity of blood and steel. All the rest were merely placeholders until her arrival and in her wake the memories of them fall away. Good riddance.


Justice. Justice, not just. Not just her hands or his hips. Not just his lips or her mouth. Not just one voice; not just one body. Not just the scribe. I think I understand now. You are gods of cruelty, and so I look for cruelty from you. You are gods of punishment, and so I do not look for praise from you. I assumed justice must be the falling sword, the heavy heart tipping the scales. I never imagined… I never dared wonder for a moment what it might be like… in a world of impossibilities, that was the most impossible. Is my heart, perhaps, not as heavy as a feather? Or for me did you, if only once, slip your thumb onto the other scale? A scribe doesn’t expect recognition. A scribe doesn’t expect thanks. A scribe doesn’t expect justice. Forgive me, then, for seeing mockery in mercy. There’s so much to believe in… even myself. But I think I understand now. Justice, not just. Not just her hands or your hips. Not just your lips or her mouth. Not just one voice; not just one body; not just one soul. Not just the scribe. Never just. That’s the meaning of justice.

Thank you.