Neurodivergent Queer Love

—or lack thereof

Pic: The bohemian queer and Montana Antifascists Adria L. Jawort

I wanted to write a queer love poem.

About queer joy.

Problem is, I don't know what it feels like to be loved beyond a platonic, sisterly sense, so, I guess, I imagine.

And I am a writer, and tis what we do is we imagine, but when trying to write off of personal experience, it's an excercise in realizing how truly fucking alien one is.

People like the idea of me, and many even want to fuck me. And that's fine. I have needs, too–even kinky ones–but I also know I am exhausting with my shall we say…said neurodivergency.

Plus, activism and art only distracts from "real" work and doesn’t pay the bills.

So, inevitably, people get understandably exhausted of my bohemian baggage.

I told them I'd write a queer love poem.

About queer joy

I already said that.

Rando observation: one time when I was at a psych ward, the person next to me–white dude in his 20s–said they were being attacked by demons for like 45 minutes. When I got my own room and place and got to sit in the quiet, my mood was a lil better cuz I didn't have to listen to that poor bastard.

Hope that person is well today.

But, I swear I am getting there

That part about queer joy

Like, how now can I appreciate the euphoria

of that time

when I was 7

I saw the mirror

There was I!

in that much too big wedding dress

of mom's

Only now when I write this

& back then

can I finally once again

settle in

And feel that pride

and appreciate pure beauty felt

...if just that moment...

My eyes closed

I’d get a white wedding viel over my face

It'd look like staring through heaven's clouds!

My last thoughts of bliss

Before my memory stored it into a cringe category

Wait! What if, like, the cake words were caramel and matched my skin *and* the doll on top!

The clouds I walk on rumble

with the sound of a vehicle

The floor of heaven collapses

Panic

Mom is home early!

Or maybe

I lost track of time

No time to hang it up

I hastily threw the wedding dress

back in the closet

They say we show and don't tell

when we write

But I am telling you now

It took a lot of built up the courage

to put on mom's wedding dress

on that day that then became cringe

on that day I tried to forget

I had moved on from slips

I pretended were satin gowns

Then that one time

mom knew

when we shopped for the Rustler blue jeans

I totally hated wearing

at K-Mart

Without thinking

I wandered off

to admire and casually flip through pretty Easter dresses

instead of toys

S-s-swit! S-s-swit! S-s-swit!

I check tags

"wonder what si-i-ize I am?"

Someday, I was gonna be like those fancy ladies at the movie awards shows, you know?

And turned around and there was mom oh shoot oh shoot!

She never said nothing

But…

there's sad concern in her eyes

Her poor baby will get picked on, if people ever knew…

Why can't I be normal!

And not this stupid, little, embarrassed queer

Like, this queer as a slur queer

Before it was reappropriated

Like, when mean boys

sometimes called me a faggot

And I would have to fight them

And I totally hated fighting

but those are the rules

Unless you want them to keep calling you that

But... Mom knew

just like God knew

When I was sent to a Bible camp

Deep in the woods

Where we worship a book that says, "nor shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God."

I rock back and forth

crying hard

I put my face down on a prayer bench

Dear Lord Jesus, I do not want to be an abomination no more, Dear Lord Jesus…

Later, I am casted at age 17

My notebooks thrown away and even burned

My parents disapprove of my queer characters in writing

And my portfolio “demonic” art

I realize, via the power of art and books not the Bible

maybe being an artsy queer is not so bad

Bisexual lighting

even if closeted

But, I swear

the queer joy is coming

I fuck women

And sometimes

good-looking men fuck me

And this time I even want them to

Unlike that time

I was sexually assaulted

as a teen

by a middle-aged man

And, back then, I was what they called a closeted transexual

Our stories were

as told:

we flocked to the coasts

and oft became hookers in cities

Our plotlines were told

as punchlines of films

as men throw up cuz they kissed one of us

Ewww!

Or, daytime talk shows ask, did you know

they were secretly born a man?

The guest flips out

Chairs thrown

crowd chants

"Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!"

But in worlds

beyond my trailer parks

and humble, low-income abodes

The Gays slowly become normalized

as sassy upper middle-class white folks

in hip, spacious apts

They are the besties of successful protagonists

who will find love at the end of the movie

And these people

They never have to be

A fucking roofer sometimes

or wash dishes at chain restaurants

And they do not know

About that time we used candles for 2 months

when they turned our power off

With tears

I made my way back

via a writing fellowship

in the Las Vegas Art's District

where I felt beautiful

for once

and didn't want to leave

back to

Montana

where colonization

Has made me a fucking foreigner

In the land of my ancestors

Such memories make it hard to write

yet I try to encapsulate what those tears said via art

Just like

that one time

outside that theater

I made them smile

we moved closer

to touch hands

and feel love

Three women laughed

And we pretended

to not hear

but her eyes still winced

a hidden tear

Heads held high

we silently sauntered

And imagined

an alternate future

when they said

we both looked

as beautiful

as that one time

we saw

one another🏳️‍🌈