The Trauma Bible: My Queer Psalms https://a.co/d/e8pD2qy – is a collection of unflinching poems chronicling queer survival in the face of trauma, religious repression, and conditional love. From belt sermons to Barbie dolls, microwave reflections to piano benches, these psalms reclaim voice and sanctify resilience. This is not your grandmother’s scripture. This is survival—with glitter on it.
Maya Angelou Was Right. About Everything
When someone shows you who they are— believe them the first time, but if you don’t, write that shit down. Underline it. Circle the red flag like it’s a vocabulary word you’ll be quizzed on later, because baby, you will.
You’ll need it when they text you at 2am, all “miss you” and “was thinking about you” like memory has amnesia, like the bruise doesn’t remember the hand that made it.
You’ll need it when you gaslight yourself into giving one more chance to the person who built an entire personality out of broken promises and weaponized apologies.
Because they will show you. With silence. With control. With jokes at your expense disguised as banter, and love that comes with terms and conditions.
You’ll want to unsee it, the first showing. Rewrite it. Make it a fluke, a misfire, a one-time-only showing of a movie you hated but still rewatch at 2am.
Don’t.
Maya didn’t lie. They showed you, and you didn’t fail by hoping for better, but baby, their potential is not your purpose.
So when they show you again, remember: this isn’t character development. This is the plot. This is who they are.
Write it down. Tattoo it on your boundary lines. Post-it note it to your mirror. Etch it in salt. Seal it with scar tissue.
And then— get the fuck out.
Not because you’re weak, but because you finally got strong enough to love yourself more than the fantasy.