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Franz Kafka, 1912

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Happy Pride Month!!! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

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Happy Pride Month!

Faust is back for the 5th time! If you want to use the flag of your choice as an avatar, they're under the cut. They're free to use as long as it's for personal use only.

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happy pride month <3

Let It Be Queer

They say, “Not everything needs to be queer.”

And I laugh, sharp and bitter, because for centuries, everything was straight by force. By fire. By blood.

They scorched the stories clean of anything that dared to kiss differently, to love sideways, to breathe without shame.

They straightened spines with belts and broken bottles, burned closets into coffins, rewrote every story with a boy-meets-girl ending, and called it normal.

They ask why queerness is everywhere now, like it hasn't always been, hidden in margins, coded in glances, murmured in alleys.

As if queerness is an invasion, not a reclamation.

As if we are not dragging back the stolen colors, the fragmented mirror-shards of people who lived and died without names or pronouns that the world would allow.

Why does everything have to be queer now?

Because everything was queer once, before they made us scrub the rainbow from our skin.

Because boys wrote poetry for each other under candlelight, and women kissed in fields when no one was watching, and gods loved all kinds of bodies before monotheism locked the doors.

Because the truth was always there, tucked beneath editors’ pens and straight actors’ faces and censored scripts and redacted diaries.

Because we are still fighting to see ourselves in stories that don’t end with death or betrayal.

Because when a queer character is joyful, alive, complex, we hear the furious shatter of another old rule breaking.

And yes, maybe not everything needs to be queer, but the air feels lighter when some of it is.

When a boy holds a boy’s hand on screen and doesn’t let go.

When a girl finds her softness in another girl’s eyes.

When nonbinary kids see that the world might just be big enough for them, too.

We are not taking over. We are taking back.

They’ve had every story for decades, for centuries— let us breathe in this one.

—T.W.

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"You Just Don’t Want to See Us"

They say,

“But it’s just not realistic. Not every story has to be queer.”

And I laugh.

Yes, I laugh.

Because it is real.

It’s always been real.

You just don’t want to see it.

You want to pretend we’re new.

That we showed up with hashtags and streaming deals.

That we came from Tumblr, TikTok, and protest parades

instead of from history,

from myth,

from bloodlines older than your closed minds

could ever begin to understand.

Queerness has always been here.

Before your god.

Before your books.

Before the boot of empire crushed the breath

out of people just trying to live.

Third genders existed in cultures

before your holy texts erased them.

Trans people were revered —

not just accepted, but seen as spirit-keepers,

bridges between worlds.

In Native tribes, we were Two-Spirit.

In South Asia, Hijra.

In Africa, genderfluid ancestors danced in fire.

In Polynesia, Fa’afafine walked proudly in sunlight.

But then came the missionaries with their maps and Bibles,

claiming to save what they didn’t understand,

cutting down lives in the name of love.

You say it’s not reality?

Reality is queer as hell.

You’re just blind to it.

Reality is full of boys who kiss boys

and girls who never want men

and kids who wake up not knowing

what the world will punish them for today.

It’s full of people who shift pronouns like poetry

and wear their bodies like armor

and dare — dare — to live in the open.

If you’re mad, if you’re annoyed

about another queer lead in a show,

a kiss that doesn’t fit your straight comfort zone,

then maybe

stop watching TV.

Go outside.

Touch some grass.

Try being a better human.

Because the truth is,

there’s still so fucking much straight stuff.

Every Hallmark movie.

Every action hero with a woman half his age.

Every coming-of-age story

where the boy just wants the girl,

and the girl wants to be wanted.

We grew up choking on straight stories.

And now?

Now we have a sliver.

A fraction.

And you cry oppression

because a prince fell in love with another prince.

You say,

“Well, these corporations only do it for money. Not for you.”

And again,

we laugh.

We know.

We’ve always known.

Capitalism didn’t invent the rainbow.

It just tried to bottle it and sell it back to us.

But if a kid in the middle of nowhere

sees themselves in a commercial

and doesn’t feel so alone —

then fine.

Let it be for money.

Let it still be something.

We don’t need your purity politics.

We need mirrors.

You don’t get to erase us

then blame us for surviving.

You don’t get to look at centuries of silence

and act like our volume now is too loud.

It’s not loud.

It’s just finally not silent.

So no —

we’re not going back in the closet.

We’re not scrubbing the queerness

out of stories to make you more comfortable.

We’ve seen what your comfort costs.

We are here.

We’ve always been here.

We are loving, living, breathing,

changing the damn channel

and writing our own stories.

If that makes you uncomfortable?

Good.

Sit with that.

Let it burn a little.

That’s what truth feels like

when you’ve only ever been fed lies.

— T.W.

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"Take these broken wings and learn to fly"

Blackbird (1968) - The Beatles, The White Album

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by woodlandcravings

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Two Women Kissing in Nature (b. 1859)

— by Georges Rochegrosse

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Not All Men, But Always A Man

You grew up with him.

He was your brother.

Maybe older. Maybe younger.

You held his hand when he cried.

Shared your food, your toys.

You played pretend and built castles and fought imaginary monsters together.

You protected him — though no one said you should.

You just did. Because that’s what siblings do.

You wiped his nose. Covered for him. Took the blame.

Laughed when he was funny. Let him win when he was small and it mattered more to him than to you.

You grew up thinking: he's one of the good ones.

Because you saw his heart.

You knew he loved you.

He never raised a hand. Never mocked you for crying.

He let you braid his hair once, remember?

You thought he got it.

So when you learned the weight of being a girl —

not in books, not in lectures,

but in parking lots, in whispers, in hands too close,

in bosses who stare at your lips,

in nights you plan around safety,

in jokes that slice deep while everyone else laughs —

You turned to him.

Not to make him feel bad.

Not to accuse.

Just to tell him.

To make him see.

Because if anyone could understand, if anyone could care, it would be him.

You told him about the way your body is always under surveillance.

You told him about the teacher who stood too close.

About the boy who kept touching after you said no.

About the fear, the simmering shame, the tightness in your chest that never quite leaves.

And he frowned. For a second.

He looked serious.

And then — he laughed.

“God, you’re so dramatic.”

“You sound like one of those toxic feminists.”

“Not everything is about gender, you know.”

And you stop breathing.

Because suddenly it is not your brother in front of you.

It is a man.

With a man’s words. A man’s smirk. A man’s dismissal.

He’s looking at you like you’re the problem.

Like your rage, your pain, your vulnerability is something inconvenient.

Embarrassing.

And you wonder: Was he always like this?

But it’s your brother.

Your brother — your sweet, stupid, laughing brother — he’s not hitting you.

He’s not harassing anyone.

He’s not a monster.

But he doesn’t believe you.

Not really.

He hears your fire and calls it too much.

He hears your hurt and calls it a phase.

He thinks your fight is against him.

And maybe you snap.

Maybe you yell.

“Do you know what it’s like to walk home with keys between your fingers?”

“Do you know what it’s like to pretend you’re on a call just so someone doesn’t follow you?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have a boss praise you for a report and then tell you your skirt is distracting?”

And he rolls his eyes.

And in that moment — you hate him.

For not listening.

For laughing.

For being exactly what you feared.

And worse — you hate yourself for feeling that hate.

Because you know he’s better.

Don’t you?

He’s your brother.

He grew up with you.

He saw your heartbreak, your scraped knees, your first trauma.

And yet — when it matters — when it truly matters—

He laughs.

And you realize something you didn’t want to know:

Even the men you love…

Can still break your heart.

Not with fists.

But with words that scrape.

With disbelief that hollows you out.

With silence when you need their voice the most.

You sit with it.

That rage. That sadness. That shame.

That lonely ache of betrayal.

You feel it settle into your ribs.

You feel your breath catch.

Because it’s not the monsters you fear.

It’s the men you trust.

And maybe tomorrow he’ll apologize.

Maybe he’ll think about it.

Maybe he’ll call you and say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get it before.”

But tonight?

Tonight you remember what it means to be a woman.

And to know, in your blood, your bones, your bruised heart:

Not all men.

But always.

Always.

A man.

— T.W.

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Bothersome beast, comforting friend

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antigone was right