Things my mother taught me:
My skin is winter kin and my blood is thick with hard earned brilliance, my bones are diamonds trapped in human form and my heritage whispers to me every night when the sky turns gray.

The things she failed to tell me:
Your throat will clog with your darkness and you will choke on your own power and you will die at the hand of a sunlit goddess the shape of your heart.
She carries your death tucked beneath her blouse and that will be the only time you will allow someone to hold your life in their hands
and you will give it to her willingly just like everything else, just like the moon eventually steps aside to let the sun shine.
Her light will stay with you until the very end and you will thank her with blood stained lips for she will teach you the meaning of true love.
How it claws and rips you apart, like a hawk digging into the soft flesh of your galloping heart.

Love, my mother failed to tell me, is warm fingers and liquid sunshine. It's stubborn fists and naked cheeks and hair the colour of snow and tears.

Too bad I think, that is just one dying breath in the space of eternity.

▸ trans guy in his 20's and tired, heteroflexible ace
▸ dark humour, light heart
▸ nature is all i've ever known
▸ they say that time heals everything but what if time is everything?
▸ ( crying, trying to explain himself to himself )
▸ it's never lupus