Flea in my Bonnet - August 2025

You can tell I'm pissed off if the only way I can articulate myself is by speaking in metaphors and staccato sentences. Which is to say; if I'm resorting to my poetry roots someone's getting scorched. 

For context, we got chastised for being “too inclusive”. Someone felt that queerness was too confrontational when all they wanted to do was look at shit they'd never buy. So, instead of a diatribe I wrote this.

Punk Rock Flea Market "Memoria" - May 2025

“A dying language that refuses to die.”

Someone said they didn't like all the

‘‘inclusiveness’ 

being shoved in their face

At the Punk Rock Flea Market.

Proving they were dainty like a truffle

And we were the pig's snout

Disrupting their life.

The market should have been less about 

Each piece of art saying:

“I’m alive and here's the proof”

And more about staying quiet

While selling shit.

Well, if that's the case,

Here are my thoughts.

This person, whoever they are,

Whomever you are-

I hope you have a bad day.

Not, like, a bad day in suburbia 

Where your toast gets burnt

And the bean sprouts you just bought

taste funny.

I hope you have our kind of bad day.

The kind of day where 

Your life suddenly catches on fire

Because your brain chemistry is trauma-informed,  

And molecularly the same as gasoline

So all it takes is a misfired synapse

To spark things off;

I hope you forget how to say “help me”

When that happens.

I hope your self-immolation

Skips the part where mania

Makes you feel like you're alive again

So you just end up on fire,

In the middle of your depression hoard,

Staring at the smiley face on a crisis pamphlet.

I hope you hear voices

That tell you don't deserve to live.

I hope you know those voices are real

And belong to the men on the television 

Who hide behind Bibles, Qurans,

And closets;

I hope you hear the slurs they hurl publicly

In the poorly structured sentences they send you 

When they privately ask to see you naked.

I hope no one is there for you. 

Even worse-

I hope your support system uses your deadname, 

insisting they know what's best for you.

I hope you hate your body.

But not in a suburban way-

Which is why you bought,

And were so disappointed,

By bean sprouts.

I hope you hate your body because 

It sees itself as the enemy,

And will the spend the rest of it's life

Raging war.

I hope your chronic fatigue 

Has you missing out on life

Because everyone around you 

is tired of you bailing.

But more than anything- 

I hope your friends get mad at you when you try to explain. 

I hope you feel as insulted as it sounds.

I hope you know these are wars you'll never win.

You'll lack the fortitude

To be the strongest person people know

And remain a victim to your circumstances

Without a sense of humour.

I hope you have one of our bad days.

Because you'll come to appreciate the fact

That folks like us tend to suffer silently

Until we no longer suffer at all;

If you catch my drift.

So the loudest we can comfortably scream

Without screaming

Is by making art that speaks to people.

What you called inclusiveness

Is actually a dialect of survivor’s pride;

And it's plain to see you don't appreciate the language.

But out of all the hopes I've outlined,

I hope you never have to struggle like we have.

None of us do;

That's why our mother tongue

Is an entire community

Your mouth can barely grasp.

Written by @Alottacollage - PRFMYYC July 2025