If you don’t want to think about HP or JKR, feel free to skip this.
Look. I made a mistake and went on JKRs Twitter late last night to read for myself the latest batshit. I’m currently in this mourning cycle of every three months or so I completely breakdown over her gross transphobia. I’m not really ready to talk about all of it yet. I’m not really ready to move forward from it. I don’t know what moving forward looks like, even as I take the posters down and rearrange my bookshelves, and find new beautiful stories to love.
I used to have this nasty habit of getting a little tipsy and writing disgusting emotional poems that no one ever reads. Or should read. I’ve talked about this before. Now, of course, I put most of my weird emotions all over this little platform. It’s messy, but there’s no doubt being more open on here has helped me heal . . . helped me talk about the hard stuff with the people closest to me. I remember what it costs to keep secrets.
So I wrote a gross emotional poem to just get out my feelings last night so I could sleep. It helped. I slept. I’m okay today. But I couldn’t figure out what else to write here that felt real and true. So I’m sharing the poem here in its messiness because, well, if I can’t be safe in the books I loved, then I can be safe here in the space I create for myself.
“Dangerous”
It’s so dangerous to love
I’ve been so reckless with my heart
I gave it to people
And still redo the stitches
I gave it to a story
And sob at its betrayal
How can what I love
Who made me who I am
Have hated me all along
Harry would never . . .
But she would, does
I thought, this, at least, was safe
When I inked it on my skin
When I said that books could never break my heart
Like people did
I was wrong
It’s so dangerous to love
I’m still so reckless with my heart
With Love,
Natalie