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...
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...
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...
She died in winter.Gray sky, bone-cold air,a corpse in a hospice bed that finally shut up. And I didn’t cry.Not a single tear, not a whimper,not the shaky breath of a daughterwho lost her mother—because I never had one. I had...
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.
