Grandchild of the nameless son

thetrevorproject:

We may not be able to offer a physical hand, but we’re always just a phone call away, day or night: 866.488.7386.

When they burned my bones to dust

I rose as the moon, and

in my heart

poured the silence of each child who

turned their back on crying

trying to stop dying

when sneers of “faggot” made callouses of their lives.

My flesh became a torch

with the beating of each lover

set to hymns of rancor

as morality fell

to justifying rending those they hate.

The ever growing mourning

crosses lines between our hearts as

parents come home to find 

their futures dashed to pieces,

but do we take the time to see the pictures on the wall

that was once some mother’s child?

I rose as the moon

and released their scars into the night

turning my dust into the balm

that soothes the wounds of never finding home,

I become more in dust

as I rain down

as syllables of exaltation

to remind you of the temple

amongst your broken fears.

I rise as the moon

and see the play of hope and fear,

cast my veil aside

and turn my heart into the garden to

call each child home.

As these embers fade

what is left cannot be broken,

for no fire can burn the wind. 

There are no consequences of being Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual or Transgender to live with. What we live with is the consequences of a culture that doesn’t understand their fellow human beings. 

If someone thinks you are less of a human being because of who you love, they are not seeing that love makes us more human. 

Neon lights puncture the canvas of this starry

night is falling into the lapping waves of the

see the world is turning colder all the

time is not the march that we 

recall the times I told you how I

love is not some posture but we

forget all the words and dive. 

I imagine most people are aware of this. 

(via sliker816)

Breathe,

watch the shadow,

watch it change,

flicker in the candle

Breathe. 

Breathe

tired weight,

watch the shadow,

watch it stretch as the sun goes down.

How many times will I see this

change?

Breathe.

How many times 

till the sun goes down?

Breathe.

How the sun goes down. 

Breathe.

Shadow flicker.

Breathe.

The Sun goes down. 

Breathe.

Goes.

I think most of you know I’m always here if you need anything. Consider this a friendly reminder. 

(via sliker816)

When sight

sees the pervasive radiance,

this is the joy

of living. 

All the words

compare a farce to a lie,

we say them only in that they are useful,

not to truth

but to the hope

and fear.

We see joy

and sadness

as two,

when they are vines

that share the same root.

Cut the root,

see.