on gender identity & sexuality

Recently, gender has been such a recurring topic in my mind. To the point where I think in cycles, realise the paradox in each assumption I make, and come out frustrated. On one hand I love the dichotomy between feminine and masculine, what each represents and how some days I feel like embodying one more than the other. Some days I want to be bright, impulsive, explosive while other days I choose sensuality and nurturing and reflective energies to embody. I love to hop between these realms which have been encapsulated in human forms: “feminine” and “masculine”. It feels like a game. However, at the same time, I see the uselessness to have to group characteristics and attitudes into two categories. Why do we do this? By doing this we are defining what we cannot be once we state that we belong to one label and not the other. Isn’t it something in excess? An unnecessary part to add to our identity, and an unnecessary stress and struggle. Removing the label, sometimes, I feel like I can breathe deeper and create myself better. The clay in my hands no longer needs a cut-out, and I feel myself expand. I never really realised this was a cage until I saw the metal columns. When I don’t stick a name to my “gender”, it’s as if gender didn’t exist, and it was just me, this human, being itself in this world, surrounded by other humans trying to also reach their ideals of themselves. I don’t need to announce to the world that I am only one category of gender, because I don’t want to exclusively identify only with a certain set of principles, ideals, expectations. I am not feeding into this concept by society, I personally reject it. Saying my gender is female or male, I’m left with an inner question mark, where I’d like to not even stand in the middle, but completely out of the spectrum. This human body, made out of flesh cells, proteins and all, is simply my outer manifestation, but I identify with my creative essence which is boundless, nameless, ever changing. And the same with sexuality- in my reality, it will not exist. It is unecessary, and I will never know completely that my whole life I will only be attracted to a certain “gender”- for that also is just a concept. It’s all just mind play things. I will fall for who I fall for.

However, I still do understand where these labels come from. In order for us to feel like we belong, for us to create amazing communities, for us to bond with people like us, and for convenience. Sometimes we also feel safe once we give ourself a label, we feel like we know ourselves a little bit better. You are free to choose whichever label you like, or create one yourself. I think that is a beautiful human process. As for me, I’ll stay on the side-lines, a little lump of clay that never fully hardens. I don’t know who the fuck I am, and I’m great with that- in fact, I enjoy it. I enjoy this constant evolution without the strings of societal concepts. It allows me to be whatever or whoever I want. I simply Am. Beyond words and forms, I am. And I am here to create and love.

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between my two front teeth/an ode to nature

it’s like a gasp,

mouthful of mountain air

after spending

3AM

underwater

 

i’ve finally

raised my head

let the crickets

cradle my hair,

wind straighten my shoulders

and ill let birdsongs

stretch my lips apart

so earth can fit through

the gap between my

two front teeth

 

green, green of

morning leaves,

rustling trees,

broken knees

stitched back up

by the arborescent

fingers and strips

of creation

 

i feel its

majesty

bow down to me

as i bow down to

it.

it’s sacred tongue

glides over the

wrinkles on my

hands, between my

toes and thighs

 

i’ll let myself fall

back for once

into that cosmic

perfection

something dirty

I’m tired

underwired

the way words conspired

between bicycle wheels

-head over heels-

metaphors

running on an

exhaust fan

trying to cram

in

something magical

mystical

over-used

logistical

sayings

about how the moon reflects

in your eyes

once or twice

or

how your freckles

look like gemstones

stop romanticising

shiny shimmering

things

swings of love

not everything takes flight like a

dove

I’ve heard too much

about how you want to

learn, earn

constellations

or how one day

you’ll down 3 bottles

of beer and whisper

to your sister about how the sun

looks like her blister

 

you got yourself stuck

in a tongue twister

you’ve run out of words

like crystal clear,

icy cold, sharp as a spear

 

i want the filthy

part of your syllables,

ones you take back

cut off some slack

throw me back with

words that

catalyse

paralyse

your nerves

with swerves and

turns of words

let the tired sun,

moon, stars

rest for once

put them behind

bars

give me something

dirty

something jerky

something that does not

click

that shows no mercy

 

tell me about how

you dissect that

small body of yours

bust through those doors

my pill

you know something

that annoys me

about me

I’m not saying this for

self victimisation

that fixation

away from stagnation

oh look,

my catchphrase

through the haze

 

anyways

sometimes,

maybe always,

i find cuts beautiful

i find blood beautiful

i find gushing wounds fascinating

like a scientist

i’ll sprinkle salt on top

oh look its bubbling

shining

heat is produced

i guess i just turned on the engine?

 

i find suffering exquisite

something romantic

something perfect

something strong and bold and

confident,

like what i am not,

 

let me give you an equation,

to create

is to suffer

to suffer is to create

I’m bleeding so i must create

something of the mystical

sophistical

 

being happy is completely useless

i need a stab

to react

i need toxicity

like a pill

 

I’m addicted

convicted

 

 

 

i think it’s broken

I think it’s broken.

I mean,

on the outside

my hands glide

over shimmering

shiny polished to

perfection

steel,

and I mean,

the engine runs well

quite swell.

it’s ready to take flight

you may think

I’m quite right

 

open the door;

it’s

deconstructed

words

thorned berries

sharp sounds of

syllables,

unwanted.

Haunted

crying

mumbling

stumbling

over wires

in puddles

scratched knuckles

electrocute me

maybe i’ll be free

 

and maybe you’ll

get past all that

but oh honey

how funny.

pass the haze

and it’s

numbers

static numbers-

piling over numbers

climbing over

calculator tiles

for miles

counting

the crumbs i had

for breakfast

and lunch

and dinner

and yesterday’s meals

and hell maybe last

week

and ill label that

biscuit i hid in the pocket

behind the dinner table,

crushed by my boot

because it wasn’t on the

timetable

 

and at the very back

on the walls,

i’ll have beautiful angels

with

red halos

carved on to

shadows of my

thoughts-

they just love picking at

the light and

dimming it, just slightly,

politely

“don’t take it personally,

but I might just,

since I must,

combust this

lust for joy”

and i’ll bow down to

that

bow down to claws

that clench over

something bright,

ill give in to the dark,

the pain

let me drain into the sink,

 

sometimes i enjoy it

 

i just might

Midnight thoughts with someone

 

Late night talks

trick sleep

languidly away.

 

Suddenly

I see shadows

of my words on

the walls

between my toes

and fireflies

in my head,

my eyes

 

They buzz,

tingle

grass green

monochromatic

luminescence

not static

in this

adolescence.

 

I can’t hear the tick

of the clock anymore

with the flick

of the toungue

just the phrases,

the workings

of another mind

intertwined in

the dark

like vines.

 

Right next to me.

 

It’s 4am and

we consider watching

touching

the sunrise

as our mouthes

exhaust exchanges

on the snowball

called life

 

rolling, rolling

getting bigger

growing

and suddenly,

we’re here.

 

Dissecting society

with a butter knife.

What we could have

been in life.

Picking on the

gods,

everything is against

our odds.

 

Suddenly bed bugs don’t bite

when your fears

take flight

now impressed on your

mouth –

 

pull up your blanket,

its cold

w’ere unmoving

sublimed

by our mind

 

Looking at the clock

we think it’s six,

but it’s five.

 

So the last word

creeps out

skates

into the space

between us.

Curls around our

cuts

then silence-

 

sleep.

Broken Promises

She looked at him, amazed, with pure joy. It was as if she’d seen him for the first time. For her, he was like a luminescent spark appeared after rubbing two rocks together for countless minutes. Her eyes admired every single bit of the man she knew so well.

She was leaning towards him in her bed, her frail body almost trembling with emotion. Continue reading