We Have Enough Dead Friends By Lena Oleanderson Come over. The doors are open, my flat's a mess and so is my heart but the doors are always open. Come over. I will make soup, probably from frozen but the important thing is we will both eat. You don't have to be dying, but if you are, or you feel like you are, or if living's been hard, call me, and I will show up. It doesn't have to be that bad, it doesn't have to be bad at all, but if it is, please call. Do you want me to do the groceries? Do you want me to mop the floors? Do you need to be held; you don't have to be dying to be held. If you want me to be there, I want to. I'm on the bathroom floor again, and breathing is hard, and eating's been hard, and sleeping, the world is a laden thing rolling around on my chest lately. Just being alive is heavy tonight, but we have enough dead friends. Come over.
I don't think I've come across a poem that taps into my ethos when it comes to navigating queer community within the context of a hostile world as much as "We Have Enough Dead Friends" by Lena Oleanderson.
I strive to make my home a sanctuary where other faggots feel safe and cared for.
