Gentle hand, slapped back Faces turned from kindest gaze To a colder path

Struggling to open my eyes Trying to put on a disguise To make me seem like a morning person

As the heat of the day recedes Work ends, and I tend to my needs For comfort, relaxation, and laughter

After dark, my brain comes alive Words leap from my fingers and thrive Seeming like the best I've ever written

She wrapped her hand around the icicle, and it bit her bare skin, like sharp needles sticking into her palm.

They say she comes in response to the cries of an unwilling bride the night before her wedding. For she was once such a maiden, wearing a dress she didn't want, forced into the arms of a man she did not choose. They say that rather than face her fate, she set off onto the moors with a single lantern for company, never to be seen alive again. And yet sometimes, she is still seen, out in the darkness - a lantern bobbing in the night, a white-clad figure fleeing through the wind and the rain. She is seen most often by men stumbling home drunk from their bachelor party, and if he is wise, he takes it as a sign to call the marriage off, lest the ghost steal his wife away from their wedding bed, leaving behind an empty dress.

Among the thundering peaks I lift my head And bid good morning To the dawn-streaked towers carved upon the rock

Everything in life can be recycled

Everything exists to be used and reused and reused by each other transformed and informed and absorbed by one another

From the earliest stars to the bones beneath the earth, eroded and scarred,

It's all the same. It's all a puzzle dumped out of a box by an unruly child and strewn about in pieces on the floor

You are simply the current way these pieces come together into life.

Beware the red claws Lurking in the details Poised to drag you down

Bells and bright colors Have you no hidden depths, or Is it just an act?

At the end of things, I asked God, "Show me your face!" He opened the door.

One: the number of Google searches it took for me to go, "Oh my god. This is me. There's a word for it."

Two: the number of times I had to come out to my mom. The first time, I thought I might be bi, or maybe gay. All I knew is that I maybe had a crush on a girl, now, and when I told my mom, she stood up and hugged me. The second time, she said, "That's just how all girls are. You don't want sex until you really love someone."

Three: the number of siblings in most fairy tales I read as a child and in most of them, the youngest would break the curse and win the day and get married and have babies and live happily ever after My mother wants all this and more for me, and more for her, but I'm the middle child, so it probably won't happen

Four: the number of romantic or sexual partners I'd had by age twenty-five and I'm not even sure one of them counts, since when I realized they were abusing me they claimed the whole thing never happened, so anyway in most cases I'm happy without a partner as with them, and in that case even happier

Five: the number of syllables in demisexual So sometimes I say demi Or just leave it at ace When I don't want to give an explanation But even ace usually requires an explanation And if I bring up aromanticism then I'm really screwed

Six: the number of letters in aroace, which Siri doesn't know how to pronounce. She calls it ah-row-ah-chay.

Seven: The number of days in Ace Week. Did you know that it's Ace Week? I wish there didn't need to be an Ace Week But there are fifty-one other weeks in the year that get to be Allo Week So it's a semi-reasonable demand