It's Too Late


Some Gender Haikus

Some Gender Haikus

For You to Enjoy or Not

I Don’t Care:


I am seen at times

As a young, small boy of sorts

I don’t care at all.


People are bothered

By things that don’t affect them

Because they’re stupid.


When humans are trans

Or otherwise gender queer

Leave them alone, jeez.


It’s interesting to me that people are so surprised by all of these stories about these sexual harassers. People have been talking about this–often without getting into specifics for various reasons–since like- the beginning of time.  

I also can’t stop thinking about how many men who are harassers who are talking online taking the side of the abused. Stop that. Admit what you have done. Take responsibility. Apologize. Talk to your friends. Don’t wait for it to come up organically- just bring it up. Volunteer in shelters or donate. 


And if you are a man who isn’t sure if something you did in the past was wrong, ask. There is no reason not to. Initiative is key. That is what is happening now. People are becoming brave enough to take initiative to speak out.

If you are reading this and you have been harassed- man, women, and everything in between- know you are not alone. And you can speak out. People will support you and love you and believe you and respect you.

/end rant/

Dianic Wicca.

Just read that Dianic Wicca rejects transwomen so WTF, you guys?

Literally one of the perks of Wicca is that it is an ever-changing religion not held back by antiquated dogma.

Even the God and Goddess are meant to be taken as metaphorical representations of the ideals they stand for.  They are considered to exist but they aren’t considered to be a dichotomy of discrimination.

Anyone who isn’t pro-trans fully just fuck off.

The Truth is Out There.

When I was five, I knew the truth.  I knew who I was.  I even knew the language to use to put forth to others who I was.  Who I am.  But I was told I was wrong.  I was told IT was wrong.  And because I was young, I surely believed it.

When I was eight, I tried on my skin.  My true self.  And I was still very young, but I knew it fit me perfectly and me alone.  And so I kept it to myself.  I wore it under my more loose-fitting outer shell.  I kept it safe and warm and I was sure to comfort it when it felt scared or vulnerable.

I was 13 and I hated that skin.  It was getting older and grew itchy.  It started to rot and it started to smell.  Still, I begrudgingly carried it around and I told myself it would wilt and die when it was ready.   Told myself I wouldn’t have to carry it around forever.  But there it stayed, clawing at it’s itches, scratching its way out until it killed all my nerves and I felt nothing at all.

I was 17 when I sat in its presence.  Young but okay.  It had made its way out and I stared it in the face for the first time.  It was sweeter and gentler than I had expected, when with it’s claws and scratches.  I knew again what it was and that it was mine.  It was a part of me all along but it couldn’t survive under that shell.  It couldn’t hide forever.  And so there it was, say on a park jungle gym in the cool wind of autumn.  It was so easy to let it run free.  Maybe a little too free, but that betrayal was something I would learn to live with and embrace.  When something is locked up for so long, it is bound to come forth with an explosive energy.  It’s okay not to contain it.

When I was 23, I hurt it.  I abused it.  It did not deserve to be treated that way.  It had been trapped for so long and it deserved to be taken care of and cared about.  And here I was, throwing it around to whoever would take it.  Other young skins clawing it from the outside, now.  It was falling into whatever traps they set and letting it scream and cry.  Nothing to claw at this time.  Once it escaped, it was out.  But it was in pain, now, and I let it.  I ignored it like a crying child throwing a tantrum.

When I was 24, I gave it peace.  Not the peace it ever thought it would find, but the peace it needed.  It settled into the crook of that joy and it lay there completely still.  It found a home.  Something that needed repairs here and there, but something comforting and good.  It was ever yet still young, but in time, it would know the difference between being young and being unsure.  This time, it was sure.


Without the awareness of a thing, does it really exist?  No.  Not to you.  And the only things real in your life are the things you know.  Everything that is real exists in your own brain.  If it doesn’t exist there, it does not exist to you.  It only exists elsewhere, whether known or unknown to others.

If you doubt this, remember: The average human eye can see only 1 million colors.  I say “only” 1 million because tetrachromats- humans who possess four cone cells in their eyes rather than the average three cone cells- can see up to 100 million colors.  Had you not read this, you would assume you were able to see maybe not all of the colors, but all of the colors the eye could see.

Never forget that everything you learn can change your entire reality.  Take in every bit of knowledge you can.  Make your universe everything you want it to be.


I have to put on sweaters.

Not for warmth, but to hide.

They don’t keep me away.

They let me shine.

Out of the world,

Out of my mind,

Into the blanket of societal norms,

I get to be myself.

Under my sweaters.
When summer comes,

I wait for storms,

So I can cover up,

With a smile of my face.
The beach is scary.

The gym is worse.

I think if I gain weight,

It will be like a sweater, too.

But it doesn’t help.

Things are bad then, too.
I don’t love myself.

I keep that inside.

I learn all of the ways,

I can let myself hide,

Without being a “freak.”
If I hold my own self,

I won’t have to worry.

I know all the places,

That make me feel sorry.

Not for myself,

Just for my place,

And I don’t need all of this,

Thrown in my face.
What I need are my sweaters.

My jackets, my layers.

They let me hide in freedom,

Just where I belong.

They let me talk, walk-

They let me sing songs.

They hold onto me,

In the only way I want.

A light hug, 

Nothing to flaunt.
The uglier the better,

Cold enough to need my sweaters.


I was sat in a bar or a cafe or a library or whatever. It doesn’t matter. I remember the feeling. I could sense the danger, felt it in my bones, as one does. Was that all it was? A feeling, a sense? Feelings are often meaningless when they do not derive from any place of evidence. However, using logic on feelings, it doesn’t work. And there it was. Danger. Danger lurking, looming, seeping into my core- but is danger so different from passion? Why should one bring us joy and the other doom, regret, fear? Both drive us in some way, generally toward what we think is “The Better.” I am not afraid of danger. No, I know of danger. And I know keep it near my heart. I know it as a friend.


Inspired by my best friend and a creative mastermind, Berlyn ❤  Specifically, this.

Image: “Au Charbonnage” Café, Vincent van Gogh.