Being an outsider in one's own family is rough. We've all seen these characters before: Harry Potter and the Dursleys. Cinderella and her stepmother and step sisters. Lately, we’ve been given Penelope Featherington and her mama and sisters in Bridgerton. It’s the cat and mouse game of temporary acceptance, of conditionality, of fickle love – of begging for scraps of acceptance and wanting to read more into them than could ever be there. It’s the thrill of an elaborate heist to steal something precious that should have been yours to begin with.

dinner after daffodils under dim

amber point of view. five golden glowing yolks

to find a furrowed brow

I ask her, “Wouldn’t it be too cruel

for a god to make us and nothing

after?” If she were my parrot,

I could point

to a silver bowl, saying: “What’s that?

What’s that, again?”

When it begins to sink—

When it pains me to believe

that something won't change even though you try,

And all your words mean nothing

all these words are tossed aside

I do not know what he wishes me to write, but I do not know what he sees

 when he looks at me

 for he stares quite differently.

Are you lonely, Little Rose?

Call me. I shall listen to you.

Somewhere in the distance,

the birds chirp through heavy rain.

Imagine that you and I are settled in around a glowing campfire. It’s late here. The moon is hidden behind the clouds. We brought the makings for s’mores – but more than that, we’ve brought spooky stories to tell each other. The forest around us is thick and dark, and a wolf howls somewhere in the distance. At least…we think it’s a wolf….we hope it’s a wolf.

You know what I want? I want those nebulous, undefined, unpossessive, healthy, relationships that are deep and meaningful and transcend conventional definitions. I cannot get enough of them. Yet modern media often can’t handle womxn and mxn having those types of relationships.

When I was thirteen years old, I decided to dip my toes into classic literature. I started with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen because it's supposedly beginner-friendly.

I ordered a cheap copy online; when the parcel arrived, I was thrumming with excitement as I tore it open. But even with a hefty dictionary beside me, trying to read the first line had me intimidated and lost.

My name was Daniel.

Son of a former slave-turned-inventor.

An artist by trade. Skilled with a wet paint brush.

I inhale everything through the holes of myself

because I grew where my mother kept her salty tears

and it's lived in my DNA ever since.

Past the very stroke of midnight

It commences—their moment of mirth

Transylvanian legend named Saint George's Night

When undead things crawl on this earth.