April 26, 2026/
I heard a line in a song the other day. "I used to be young." And I swear to God that line hit me so hard and I hate how much it stuck with me.
I heard a line in a song the other day. "I used to be young." And I swear to God that line hit me so hard and I hate how much it stuck with me.
When I find him again,the world will smell like rain and old leavesthe way it did the first day he chose me.There’ll be no thunder, no fanfare,just the soft sound of paws through grassand that tail beating out the rhythm of homecoming. He won’t bark.He won’t need to announce himself,just that tilt of his head,that half-smile dogs somehow inventwhen they know you’re still learning how to breathe again. He’ll look at me...
I’m sorry, I’m broken.That’s the disclaimer I carrylike a fragile-stickered box,shipped express through years of fire. I walk in with cracks showing,the kind you try to hide with duct tapeand a joke timed just right.But laughter’s just a band-aidon a bone that healed crooked. I’m not tragic—I’m just bent.Like a photograph left in the rain,colors bleeding out of their borders,faces warped until you can’t tellwho they were supposed to be. People say...
So I’m getting my face cut open— and somehow that’s the good news.* They’re gonna take a sawto this skull I’ve been living in,sand down the man that never fit,and build something closerto the mirror in my mind. Which is wild, right?Like—imagine emailing God’s customer serviceand being like,“Hey, uh, love the concept,but this one’s defective.” And now I’m flying to San Franciscolike it’s Mecca for misgendered miracles,where scalpels are holy relicsand every scar is...
M is for Mommy. M is for Mean. M is for the monster who told me I'm obscene.
She says, "Kneel." And I do. Not because I must, but because I’ve been waiting for someone who knows how to ask for me like this.
They want Pride to be pretty. Pastel. Palatable. Profitable. They want our rainbows to end firmly in the black. They want our glitter to forget it came from ash.
CLUTCH (dry, deep, like he’s narrating a sad Eastern European indie film about loyalty and cheese): I am Clutch. Warrior. Philosopher. Good boy. Back legs? Retired. Not gone—just on break. I slide like a mop with opinions. I hop when inspired. And I am always watching her. This woman? My woman. She talks to herself a lot. Half of it’s poetry, the other half is her yelling, “Where’s my phone?!”...
I thought I found my sisternot by blood,but by bond—one of those once-in-a-lifetimeride-or-die“if the world burns, we’ll roast marshmallows together”kind of friendships. She said she loved me.Said I was family.Said she saw me,like really saw me,in the way that makes you stoplooking in the mirrorfor approval. And for a while,that was enough.Our laughter was symphony,inside jokes stacked like Jenga blocks,each one more offbeat than the last.We were artists of the ache,painting our paininto poemsand turning...
I’ve always been the new kidin a school that never lets out.Thirty years late to the lunchroomstill clutching a tray of awkward silenceand a carton of “please like me.” I sit alone,not because I’m a freakbut because the chairs around menever seem to stay full.It’s not rejection.It’s not drama.It’s just absence.Just empty. And don’t get it twisted—this isn’t some sob story set to sad strings.I’m not writing a song calledpity me pretty,...
I’m April- a storyteller, space-holder, and believer in second acts. I help people navigate identity, change, and the courage it takes to be seen.
