will there ever be a time for spring?
Get me a coat—thick and thin. Windbreaker. Water-resistant. A parka for when it gets below zero. What I bring to this storm is a body of white bone and brick-red blood. Blurred footsteps. But I keep walking. Follow me, in another time, with nothing but a shirt, a pair of shorts, and slippers. The heat stings our skin as some lie still to be noticed and others move just to be seen. It’s always been long winter or hot summer. Spring only visits for a brief time. Doesn’t it feel like the weather’s just a binary of opposites? If we are only familiar with the extremes— Will there ever be a space for something tender to take root? Tiffany Putri (In honor of Pride Month: for those who came before us—queer people whose bravery was seen as rebellion, or never recognized at all.)