I’m Gnashing My Teeth Like A Child Of Cain

i know we’re both just messing around pretending to be whole but look at me. if the train was coming would you move. if the ground was falling from under your feet would you even notice or would it just be another tuesday for you. if somebody stabbed you could it hurt worse than you already do. what i’m saying is that i love you but i think we both drive over the speed limit when it’s raining. what i’m saying is that i want to hold your hand and i understand about how you sometimes have to sit down in the shower. what i’m saying is that i’m here for you and if the train comes please move.

  for you and me who experience artblock.. keep on drawing!

Anyway here’s a poem I wrote about my cat

After “Do not stand at my grave and weep”, author disputed:

Do not stand at your bowl and meow. I gave you food. It’s in there now. I feed you at the dawning light, I feed you at the fall of night. I feed you kibbles mixed with meat And wet food for a special treat. I feed you even though you scoff At all the food within your trough. I feed you and still yet you yell Like as a beast from deepest hell. Do not stand at your bowl and cry. I gave you food. You will not die.

─ Hisham Siddiqi

A four page comic about drawing, drawn for the Portland Public Library's newest exhibit, "Why We Make Comics: Reflections on Storytelling".

If you live in Portland ME, you can see this comic, as well as three others drawn by Isabella Rotman, Caroline Hu, and Liz Prince, on display from October 6th to December 31 at the library!

i’m printing this out and i’m putting it on the mirror so i can confront myself with it

To The Person I Returned The Expensive Shirt To - Jordan Bolton

My first book ‘Blue Sky Through the Window of a Moving Car’ is now available to pre-order! Get it here - https://smarturl.it/BlueSky

To all the trans people who see this tonight, no matter what happens, we will survive. Trans people will still be here 4 years from now and 10 years from now and 100 years from now and tomorrow. We have always existed and we always will. The world cannot unlearn about us; we are too public, too loud, too beloved, too present. Ill be here tomorrow. Please stay here with me.

# 31

My chest feels like a big red balloon.

Switching between over-swelled, Bulging, Tight.

To deflated and limp.

Again and again and again.

In. Out. In. Out.

The breaths come faster.

The balloons limitations heighten, only so much air can pass through at a time.

I grasp at the stings that dangle from my shirt. Who is sending all this so fast?

They need to slow down.

But I don't hate it and I can't stop it.

In. Out. In. Out.

The strings are wrapped three times around my wrists.

When did I do that?

In out. In out. In out.

The air is whooshing over and over.

I can’t-

Inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutin

I force myself to focus on the softness of my sweater buttoned around my taut chest.

I fold my hands and feel the roughness of my palms, the smoothness of my nails, the surety of my string around my finger.

I focus on the lights above me and count the tiles on the ceiling.

The balloon miraculous slows a bit and I can feel my head again.

In out. In out. In out.

It didn't float away.

I didn't fly away on an overwhelming air currant.

I am still here.

I plant my feet in the ground and feel fresh roots make a home below me, anchoring me to reality, to the world.

The air gets slower and slower until I feel flowers bloom between my toes.

Until I feel the strength return me to a slow and steady flow of air in and out of my lungs.

In. Out. In. Out.