#black and gay

[beautifulldirtyyrichh]

Boots. Green. Heavy.

[andrewisdoing]

“Sibley was dancing with his friends at a Brooklyn gas station last Saturday when police say he was stabbed to death in a hate-motivated confrontation.”

I live in a suburb of Washington and I’ve never been scared to dance down the street and I never will be but this incident reminds me every time that in this world, no matter what, if you are black, male and gay, you still have to be so fucking careful because the world is STILL filled with folks who want nothing but to kill your light and make sure you are silenced due to their own ignorance and lack of understanding.

They want us to be invisible and hide. “PLAY THEIR WAY and BLEND IN” but they do not realize that in truth that we cannot and will not dim our light for anyone. It’s impossible to dim light when we are literally stardust from the galaxies above.

Black LGBTQIA folk are the beautiful ones and WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED.

[b1creations]

[justythewriter]

Happy Lesbian Visibility Week 🌹

If you happen on this post, my name is Justy I’m from Brooklyn, NY and I’m actively sharing my music every single day. If you have a moment to stop and listen check out the attached track and please reblog this to help boost ❤️ Let’s see how far we can take this.

[shingiaia]

black dyke.

[oshun67]

Alive and well! It’s a nice day in NYC today - 8/20/24

[nguyendellearls]

Life’s been full of adventures lately. ✨

[gracefullybrianna]

Need A Black Queer Creative To Support......

[beautifulldirtyyrichh]

Outdoor Shower.

[andrewisdoing]

[sexyg8ymen]

Nurse Bae Ty 🥵

[b1creations]

Black Gay AI Love 🖤🤎🏳️‍🌈

[justythewriter]

I decided to finally write about some of the struggles I face as an independent artist. Tumblr has always been an incredible space for me to introduce my music to new listeners. So withy get if you come across this check out the links and enjoy the words ❤️

IG: justymusic

TikTok: justjustymusic

An open love letter to music.

Why is music feeling like watching every kid in the school yard get picked up before me.

My mind flashes back to that feeling seven year old me embraced knowing I would sit on the cold after school lunch tables until the final call. A late evening met with an early morning every day.

But music was supposed to be safe. When I found room to be above mediocre I clung to it for dear life. Remembering the words of the first teacher who saw me, truly saw me, and how she believed in my own lyricism even at its earliest stage.

I was so hungry when I was young. Staten Island could never offer the hug a queer black kid needed, but music could.

Home didn’t understand the sadness underneath budding teenage frustration, but music could.

I met music on a first date with no expectations but in queer fashion, maybe I fell too fast.

She took up my days. Multifaceted and engaging.

She became home and a safe space. She brought out the best in me. Introducing me to all of her friends and favorite places, putting me in rooms with people I’d be invisible to until I opened my mouth, hit the mic.

Maybe in my bliss I never stopped to consider this to be unrequited love.

We never needed all of affirmations when we first fell and yet now I find myself watching the single digit counts of comments or lack thereof.

I wonder if anyone is listening as I go to share another piece of myself to no avail.

Maybe I was sharper when I met her, yet now I watch as seemingly everyone around me makes it to those places I told her I’d take her- and even worse, I ration with if I never will.

There’s guilt as I see 29 stretching out to me, how lucky am I to meet another year of life- luck not offered to my cousin, yet how terrifying to know the projection the industry throws at me.

Even as I dodge, I become scorned thinking of how easy it seems for everyone else. The virality and colossal rise. Their talent not mine, their shine not mine, their wins not mine.

When will it be my time?

Will it ever be my time?

My days are spent helping future leaders secure their future, and yet I write and erase Plan B on what used to be my “anything is possible” journal.

Still, there is that hopeless romantic in me.

Wondering if maybe it wasn’t the right time, but the time may simply be on the way.

I know time waits for no one, but as I keep throwing my heart at the wall, I wonder where I will stick.

[shingiaia]

another day, another selfie.