Leatheredfag - Getting Into Knives

My homophobic aunt: what’s your favorite movie?

Me, a big gay who’s only been consuming queer content for the past year: um…. Shrek?

i.

the first time i met you, i couldn’t pronounce your name when you introduced yourself. my tongue stumbled over your name as if it became drunk off its syllables alone, to my embarrassment and your annoyance. tongues are a tricky thing— they are kind enough to hide everything you aren’t brave enough to say but cruel enough to make you taste the bitterness of your secrets. i wonder if you still taste her. i wonder if her name tastes like sun or vodka burning on its way down or the cold side of the bed or the things you never said to her or the love you used to share. i hope you spit out the taste of her name when you left her. because i’ve stopped sharing room with other women in the roofs of people’s mouths years ago. it took me a lot of blood and even more tears to teach myself i am too large to share a mouth with someone else— the taste of my name is made of cayenne pepper and tumeric and honey that stings, too potent to mix with someone else. i, too, have the sort of name tongues get drunk on. you do not see that we are the same yet.

ii.

if i had the chance, i’d swallow you. i’d devour the lies you tell yourself and digest the truths you’re courageous enough to admit, i’d take you straight and i’d let you burn on the way down like my throat was born to sting. i wouldn’t hesitate. but i am so frightened that if i dared taste you, it would be her aftertaste that would remain, or if i tried to describe your flavor i’d say her name instead. i can’t kiss with tongue if your mouth is still drunk off the very syllables of her name. because while i’ve learned to say your name correctly, my stomach craves to pronounce it, too. my teeth are sweetened by the very sight of you.

— tongues hold so much more than names (ap 12.21.18)

this is sort of pathetic, but when you were younger, you were sort of puzzled by the cartoon representations of fathers: how a kid would be outside with a mitt, waiting to play catch.

it's not that your father never played catch with you, but you also didn't like when he did. something about a hard ball coming quickly towards your face doesn't seem exciting. not that you'd ever say you don't trust him. you trust him, right?

it's not like he never tried to teach you anything. or never tried to parent. on rare days, a strange person would walk in your father's skin. bright, happy, magnificent. this version of your father was so cheerful and charismatic that you would do anything to keep him. and this is the version of your father that would laugh and gently coax you try again. this is the version of your father that would break down the small elements of a problem and point them out so you have an easier time with them.

as a kid, those days happened more often. but somewhere around 11, you started being too much of a person, and he was often cross about it. when he'd try to sit you down to learn something, you spent the whole time with your shoulders around your ears, nervous, uncertain. terrified because you didn't immediately understand how to navigate something. worried you will run out of his goodwill and then you will have the Other Father back, and you will have ruined a good day for your entire family. something about you being visibly afraid - it just made him angry. he would accuse you of not wanting to learn and storm away.

on tv, it's not like there's a lot of versions of men-who-are-mostly-fathers. they can be good dads, but usually their stories are not told in the household. so it's normal that your father is there, but he's never around. you know he was in the house, somewhere, it's just not that you guys ever... "hung out". he just seemed to get kind of bored of you, annoyed you weren't made in his perfect image. frustrated with how much energy it took to raise a kid. over time, you kind of adopt a bittersweet band around your throat - he knows nothing about me. he says at least i never abandoned my family.

and it's technically - technically - true. he was there for you. sometimes he even made an effort and made it to the big moments; the graduations and the dance recitals. he grins and tells everyone that he taught you. it almost erases the days in between, where he complains because you need a ride to school. the weeks that go by where he doesn't actually ever speak to you. the times you say i am struggling and he says figure it out on your own. i can't help you.

and that's fine! that's all fine. you can call him if you are having a problem with your car. or if you need a ride to the hospital. he loves playing hero, he just doesn't like the actual work that comes with being a father. and you've kind of made your peace with that; because you had to, because you don't want to live your life like he does; the whole world at a managed distance, a little rotating and controlled orb he can witness and take credit for but never truly love.

as an adult, you are rewatching some dumb cartoon - and again, the child standing in the rain, with a mitt, waiting for their father to come play catch. as an adult, there's this strange creeping dread - this little thing? this little thing, and their dad can't even show up for that? oh god, holyshit, it's not about the mitt, is it. oh god, holyshit, your father spent most of your life leaving you hanging.

Me as a kid, sending letters to the villagers I hated: Move out nobody likes you !!! You’re so ugly ew

The villager writing back: Your message made me so happy I cried :,)))) I sent u my fridge as a thank you :)))))

feelings towards hannibal lecter are like. I love him. would attack him like a rabid animal on sight. would smoke a blunt w him. one of the few people allowed to hug me. want to dismember him but while he's unconscious so he can't be into it like the weird little freak he is. would give him the strap. hate his guts. etc

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(〜￣△￣)〜 jimin messy packs ✰

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Grief is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.

- Jamie Anderson