Maybe It’s You (?)

Maybe I really do like the way your hands can make anything art, so casually.

Maybe I really enjoyed that time you pretended to sit next to me only because there was no-one else to sit with.

Maybe I liked the immature jokes, that time I injured you with hot glue.

That time we were walking around naming paper birds with nothing better to do

or that time we decided that speaking bad french was our new hobby.

Maybe it’s how we both think sarcasm should be a language.

Maybe it’s how you said “please talk to me tomorrow. I don’t wanna be alone”.

Maybe it’s the way you blushed and blamed it on that basketball game you had earlier.

Maybe it’s your comical disinterest for calculus, and tickling, and puns.

Maybe it’s the fact that you have no idea that I’m thinking these things.

Maybe it’s all these little maybes adding up in a way they haven’t before

Maybe it’s you, and maybe I like that.

xo Queertastic


Burning, Burning, Burnt.

This piece was meant to be cathartic, and giving it an introduction would make it far too long. 

We were the love that never made it past the finish line. The kind of love that I’d always dreamed of, and yet once I was in between your, no, our dirty laundry I suddenly was ready to let the fleeting recklessness pass me by. With you and I there was no in between, there was no outside, there was just you, and in the twilight hours, just me. We were so burnt, a match that had flames flirting destructively with everything in my life. Yet, I was freezing. There seemed to be no right, no wrong, just raw emotion, destruction and even creation. There were no tears, only fights, no wrongs, only rights, and yet when I left you we stopped going backwards together and started moving forwards alone. It’s such an old tragedy, a romance meant to wither in the yellowed pages of a schoolgirls diary, and yet we managed to burn while burning and being burnt, and in the middle of this flaming desert in the crossroads of right and wrong, I couldn’t stop being cold. Freezing. I left you with burns and yet I remain so cold. Like a moth to a flame, I guess I’ll never stop feeling cold until I’ve fed the fire with every bone in my body. I’m frigid as I dance with the stranger at the party I went to tonight. I’m desperate for cheap warmth when the stranger is twirling me, steadying me, burning me. I don’t even care for whoever (s)he is, my mind is on the more appealing strangeness I’ll be seeing tomorrow. I wish I could be the girl who falls for the arms that sketched her in the back of a notebook. I pretended not to see him sketching, because to him everything is art, and I can only set art on fire. I wish I wasn’t so burnt by you, but to be completely fair- I burnt you too.

xo Queertastic ❤

My Mind’s Good At Running.

Because this wouldn’t be a Queertastic post without a stupid intro, I’m choosing to reveal that I wrote this poem while procrastinating for my Bio exam that is right tommorrow. Sometimes I question my decision making skills. Anyways, I hope this poem doesn’t sound too pretentious or cringe-y, once again I tried my best to be as ~deep~ as possible. Thank you for reading!

My mind is like a child in a concrete jungle-

it runs.

And it won’t stop running, from answers to the questions that it never wanted to ask,

from the times they said yes and the times they say no.

My mind runs from passion but runs towards passion at the same time,

tripping on dust while I chase my own tail.

Making mistakes and drowning in sinking sand,

my mind is good at running.

How I Came Out To Myself. (The 2nd Installation)


So, a while back I wrote a post entitled “How I Came Out To Myself”. In light of recent events, I think it’s time for me to revisit the topic of my bisexuality. Y’know, since I’m getting my education from a school where the word “gay” has never been said on stage before? I swear, if I didn’t have this blog to express myself I would go legitimately insane.

Now, if you’ve been following this blog for a while (like, I’m saying this in the highly unlikely case that people actually read my posts) you would’ve read this post. It’s the first part of a series I’m going to start, called “How I Came Out To Myself”. Because I’ve always believed that as far as my sexuality is concerned, coming out to myself was the biggest challenge for me to pass. It’s a milestone that I’ll always want to revisit, reflect on, and learn from. I came out to my mother a good six months ago, and yet I still haven’t found that experience as unnerving as coming out to myself. She dismissed my “claim” that I was bisexual, stashing it under the category of teenage angst. Hey, no hard feelings, I wasn’t expecting anything different. I timed it safely- I chose to come out to her at a time where I already knew for sure that I was Bi. Nothing she could say would make me doubt my sexuality, I’m mature enough to know what I am and what I’m not.

But that’s all black and white. Her reaction didn’t change my identity, but that didn’t stop my feelings from getting hurt. And it’s instances like this that make me realize the importance of coming out to yourself. LGBTQ+ individuals sometimes find that they’re their only ally at one point or another. I’m going to be elaborating more on instances of seemingly minor, casual homophobia that served as huge barriers to me while I was trying to accept myself.

Let’s rewind to two years ago- I was a dewy eyed fourteen year old who seemed to live in the constant fear that the floor would fall out from under her feet. Constantly running from her emotions, sucking up tears, and overall just being all over the place because nobody told her any better. I remember asking if I could do a presentation on how LGBT people in our school get bullied, and I remember getting the idea torn down as inappropriate. I still regret how apologetic I was for standing up. I still remember running to the bathroom and locking myself up so I could breathe. Those emotions of internalized  hatred were all too real and intense for my tiny body to handle. It brought me back to when I had to listen to my uncle harping on about how homosexuality can be cured, as if it should be cured. I remember when I confided in my mom about the failed presentation pitch. I only remember because it hurt so much when she hushed me and shut the conversation down. Even today, I hear the echo of a guy in my class asking “why do you care, anyway? You’re not gay” and I remember the way I replied, saying “no, of course not!”. There, in that bathroom stall I felt resentment boiling up inside of me like the black death. I felt the rising panic as I thought to myself “stop thinking these thoughts, no-one can know.” I was horrified with myself, and there’s no way for me to sugar coat that. I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to capture how scary it is to try to run away from yourself.

That was two years ago, and a whole lot of things have changed since then. I realized that love is associated with  specific activity in dopamine-rich brain regions associated with reward and motivation. Falling in love reduces your cortisol levels. Heck, love can even be a painkiller. Among these realizations I made one very important observation – love is love. Love is petty, love is going to be debatable, but it’s all the same hormones fucking with your brain, just in different sequences. Call me a little psycho for saying this, but this series of realizations made me understand the true beauty of love. And after this set of epiphanies, I found myself unable to ever admonish myself for love, the raw emotion. That’s one of the ways in which I accepted myself and even embraced my orientation, and I’m finding ways to accept myself all the time 🙂 You better believe I’ll be adding to this series whenever I find new lessons I teach myself!

Queertastic Is Out! (thank you for reading, if you did xD)

Thank you for reading! wanna check out more rants and weird attempts at poems and musings? My blog is open, and if you’re nice I’ll hand out cookies xD Anyways, if you’re currently struggling with depression and are feeling alone, take this free hug (click here and here and here for cute GIF s that send hugs from me to you ^^)and also a few hotlines, just in case.

Vent to an anonymous stranger-

In case you’re feeling suicidal-

Hotlines for Depression specifically-

Danger, Wrapped Like A Present.

This is a lot more whimsical and maybe even relatively simplistic compared to the stuff I write now, I wrote this about a year ago while I was in a relationship that I’m no longer in. It felt super weird looking back at all the emotions I felt so intensely and not being able to relate. While most of the thing I wrote a year back are cringe-inducing, this one doesn’t seem too bad. (And yes, the title was also written a year ago)

He has eyes you can swim in. Eyes you could drown in, until they suffocate you. Eyes that feel like they are reopening your scars and healing them at the same time. He has eyes you can look at, but those eyes won’t open doors for me. They won’t make me mean anything I say to them. I know this is crazy, but those eyes will never treat me the way six year old me wished they would. They won’t give me crazy romantic gestures at midnight, they won’t ever be my fantasy and I’ve been convincing myself that swimming, no, drowning, in disappointment is normal. Those eyes are danger, wrapped like a present.


Quick City, Quicker Thoughts.

Image result for city bokeh
(for the first time in a long time, I have nothing to say for the intro)

I see the city now as plastic, in a whole new light. The graying towers look like toys and the people on the sidewalk look like paper. The cars move like blood does in veins, and it feels as though someone has painted the sky into place. here from the cold seat of a double decked bus, it looks all too real and yet all too unreal at the same time.

All of a sudden, it all feels like a lie.