inolongerfeartherazors

[inolongerfeartherazors]

[inolongerfeartherazors]

runnin thru the 7th 🖤

walkin through the depths of hell

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[inolongerfeartherazors]

x

[inolongerfeartherazors]

THEY FIGURE ME A DEAD MOTHAFUCKA

[inolongerfeartherazors]

thunderstorming by keaton st. james

[poem text: it rains so hard the creeks ache & the oak trees shudder. though you can’t see her, on the road is the angel who keeps your tires from skidding. she has gasoline-yellow eyes & a halo made of matches. her wing feathers shine blue as mountain peaks, blue as the blood thunderstorming inside the dark cavity of your chest as you pray & pray & pray for safety. “no ambulances,” you whisper, shaking, “not today not for me please.” “not today,” she sings back as she guides you home. /end poem text.]

[inolongerfeartherazors]

“You don’t know how to feel about us trotting around your mown lawn ravaging sweet wet apples off your tree. We lock antlers, raise a clatter in the wood, agitate your family dog to fits of barking, gnaw on your juniper bushes, garden violets. We see your chicken wire fences, your garden coated in hot sauce and sick fermented yolks. We’re the kind of beautiful that gets shot down. You forgot that we have been here since the eocene. Clothing you, feeding you. We’re in your myths, shadows in the trees, and after this long dead winter, our hunger will not be kept hidden in birch and pine.”

— Delany Lemke, “A poem in which I try to talk about being queer in the rural midwest and I just end up talking about deer again,” published in Homology Lit