A Soul Seamstress

There is something happening within me. I cannot explain it fully but I’m beginning to map the contours. There is a realigning of my self. My blackness, queerness, mascfemininities, class and education are ceasing to be in conversation and beginning to speak as one compounded affirmation of my existence. I know longer worry about how queer,  black, masc, educated ect, I do or don’t appear. There is no deficit in my being and no surplus on my flesh or in my spirit–I simply am. No longer do I seek affirmation in the bulging biceps and flawless curves of lust-centric partners, but instead in the constant beating of my heart and the nomadic journey of my mind. My thoughts ground me in my connection to land, space, time, ancestors and kindred spirits. On my face I see the lives of blaqueerpoz folk who lived, knowing one day another might live more fully. I write for them. I write for us. I write for you. Not simply so that our lives our recorded but so that they are not perverted or weaponized against those that are yet to come. I write so that the fire next time will grw from flame to inferno, burning clean the remnants of our incomplete radicalism, our imperfect love ethics and our unfaithful critiques. When I write, it as if I’m bringing unity to pieces of me floating throughout the cosmos of identity and reality–I have power to define and realign for the sake of living and loving more holistically. This is simply another rambling in an effort to note and connect the disparate limbs of my essence. Ashe.

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