Cleaving is literally leaving

Queerness, God & shrimp rolls and how it's been exhausting, until I think, I get married this weekend.

I’m getting married this week.

I wrote a song to help me feel it out more because I’ve been stuck and cannot finish my vows. Words fall short, when it comes to a love like this, so I sing them or something, in hopes the lilt from my tongue can push something through, all the way home.

A love that is pretty, and kind and smart and so different—in the way that thwarts you away from the ordinary of it all, spinning you off into the galaxies that actually feel like home base. It’s far from what you know, but where you always belonged. Where I belong.

I hate that I have to find and buy 150 tea candle holders, because I will only need like 5 in my real life for the rest of my life.

And my friends keep checking in and offering to help and I’m so full of ideas; I can’t seem to tell them what I need. Which is 150 tea candle holders.

I’m a Scrooge she tells me because “the women in the lift class were laughing too much today, babe.”

I’m taking lift class because I wanna carry her over the threshold in a way that’s super hot, but mainly to be tough enough to carry all of the good news I have found, when I learned recently how to let go of certain people, and when to hold on to others. By recently, I mean when I committed to a relationship with a person who is a woman. And when I learned to speak, not my truth, but the truth. I finally became the most me.

Friends and family will break your heart, so I’m cleaving in ways beyond biblical. When I get married this week, I’ll see who is there, who tried to be, and who couldn’t be. But most importantly, I’ll be so loved. And I will love back, in varying degrees. The lengths I will go, when I will become a wife. And the lengths I will limit, when I have one.

Last week I may have cried in a sad way into a shrimp roll because of something my mother said to me about how she felt about queer marriage. Eight decades of thinking one way and three and a half years trying to understand the profundity of wholeness, of freedom, of joy. Of Blessing. Of the other way. It’s a hard thing.

Today I was apologized to and encouraged allinthesamebreath concerning a beautiful thing I’ve been co-leading with a friend (whom will be at said wedding). We talked about what a safe space can do for people—queer people. Especially in a church. As I chomped on my duck confit salad—because I am, this week, insufferable, I obviously grabbed a loose frisée, and raised it up towards him, in triumph, like I was congratulating him for Pride month or something. What we started one year ago has been the most, if not one of the most, important things we have been a part of.

This last year was a lot.

But this week I’m getting married.

And she’s studying for her final tomorrow. She will save many people.

And I am getting my short film formatted as a DCP. I will entertain people.

Life is so so wide,

Like a smile,

or a long while.

But my arms hurt from always trying to hug the shit out of it.

Thankfully I’m lifting weights.