in which we thank all the Powers in the world for the word ‘queer’

It amuses me to no end when men try to be passive-aggressive in order to get me to do something. Mostly because nothing makes me more likely to shut down completely faster.

And I’ll be honest; that fact does amuse me. Keep trying, little boy. You think I’ll lower myself to spar with you? Like I don’t have anything better to waste my time on.

Maybe I’m not as Seelie as I’d like the world to believe. Probably not. I’m probably just outright evil and desperately attempting to swallow it out of some internalised shame, or something.

Not right now, though. Right now I feel…nothing. I feel like I’m speeding and floating at the same time. Unhinged. A little feral. A snarling fox. A black hole for a heart. Sucking up all the light I find because I can’t make my own.

Maybe my ex was right all along; maybe I am a dead star.
Or maybe I’m a new kind of light altogether, and only some people can see it. Or want to.

Also, I’m not going to define myself using any other label than “queer” from now on. Not because I’m confused — I’m not. I’m physically attracted to men, but never romantically or sexually (not if they’re not fictional). I’m romantically, physically, and sexually attracted to women. Trans women, cis women, just women. It’s how I’m wired and I’ve known it for a long time, but the world and its insistence on labels just complicates something that is, at the end of the day, very simple.

My Estel will be a woman, or at the very least, not a cis man.
That’s all there is to say about that.