QTPOC Mental Health Resources
A new site is launching that is combining resources and giving queer & trans people of color a chance to have a voice through art creation and essay writing.
Any assistance you can think of, whether it is sharing this post, liking it, or donating funds that go towards paying the editors, writers and artists would be amazing.
Thank you so much for reading, and sending you love.
gas masks, metal rods cowered
underneath the pressure of overabundant
friction. my brother left old skin
behind, in the rubble.
the tremor of neurons, or hands, or lands
is cause for alarm (which is a tremor of neurons),
(which is the reverberation of slammed gates)
(which is the shiver of throat borne from a white, chalky epicenter)
(which is a shaky aorta the doesn’t affect him none)
(which is a shriek burst from quivering chords)
were there any casualties? Was anyone
stood beneath the frame of this felled house?
Even now, echoes escape esophagus
in the dark of night to meet a cold door
with slits that can do naught but disregard him.
no one bothers about the casualty that’s the disaster
hearts don’t reply “yes” when twitchy fingers knock
the blood from the wound that speaks does not get wiped
away. you’re simply left a statistic, with a name
and alone at night, the soundless crunch of toss
and turns, a body begging a bed for comfort.
i have not written anymore
gently tossed pebbles to the base of my lungs, i
pressed lips to trachae and thought “breathe”, just
to hear the tremor of imprisoned breath, feel
the helpless silence of gagged absence.
oceans swim, did you know? at low tide,
the waves forget for all the creatures bobbing
in her. she wonders how she is so tired among
all of this stagnancy, pregnant and never
birthing, a mother never crowned.
i have not written anymore
the last words i had were etched in my elbow
but that story has since eroded by the gentle waves
of depression, and i traded clack and scratch
for the sound from my lungs
pressed to my ear.
i am in a dark cave now, because the wise man
does not trust memory. you will not remember
if you’ve been moved or are moving. the barefoot feel
of a flower petal, the flower petals life beneath
the burning sun, the sun’s fear of it’s shine,
the stem who pushes pushes pushes away the gravity
wet soil, compact and hungry for purpose, the comforted
wormed ripped by the child who screams. the mother,
moved and moving.
even if you only have images, you must
this poem is a belly’s crack
from the atmospheric weight of lack.
this poem is the last pushy exhale
of dusk turning away the eye of the sun,
this poem forgot about me,
then dressed me
in forgiveness its neglect
it takes everything in me to birth
nothing. how does the poet’s
fingertips commit to the task of squeezing
wetness from your lips, desperate
for you to sample the dryness
of an empty well’s thirst to be
an abusive lover once asked me,
“why won’t you let me love you”
and i spent my days in rewind,
in hopes that my mouth could
breathe out the sound of crowns of dead grass’
scratch against burdened stone
it is the moment you write
and realize your pen
is out of ink. the grind
in halt. the subtle
friction of absence
i take in breath to every crevice,
every bend of body, to blood to atom,
the singers of change, of time, experience,
the every expansive and intangible
the closest view has the more visible holes.
and me is not as connected to i as
we think we are,
like both black hole and star
still… blinded by the role of light
assigned to me, i can’t
escape the inevitable bend
and break of my
empty houses hold homeless sounds
and dust without genealogy
defined floating in gasps of light
succumb to emptiness and voyeurs’ awe
i say to them, “i understand, i understand”.
on the better days, there
tears and silence.
drones that survey.
In dialogue with “Poem”, by Lucy Ives
it’s hard to describe at times,
how you didn’t know barnacles moved
or how they could find habitat in the underside of your skin,
how you can actually feel like the number zero,
not worthless, but nothing,
which is different than worthless
and naught like peace.
how your fingers will snatch at air
to shove life back down your throat and miss
for ten minutes, how you can drown
from just an inch of another’s anger,
how a flush of oxygen isn’t always safe.
it’s hard to describe sometimes
it’s hard to describe, sometime
it’s hard to describe, sometimes
(especially to my own people)
how the body can know the song by heart
and still sometimes sway offbeat.
© Stephanie Ambroise 2015 All Rights Reserved