Bruised bellies

By Róise

As I press the injection into my bruised belly, my mind wanders back over the moments, the hours, the days, the months, the years that led to this.

I see her, just a face in a bar; our first hello, a drink, a chat, some smiles, an excitement, jitters.

I see our love grow; dinners, dates, I love yous, nervous chats sharing what we each want…

A shared home, a ring, a promise.

I see our first appointment; talk of fertility, tests, sperm, eggs, heads full but hearts full too, brimming.

I see the day, the dancing, the I do’s, dancing under the stars and the love - all of the lovely love.

I see the first tablet, the first injection, the hope, the excitement, the exhilaration.

I see the first disappointment, the heartache and break, the tears, the embraces, holding each other from falling apart, the care and the kindnesses that rebuild.

I see the strength build again, and the efforts and the strength, the love and the pain – intertwined, interwoven, mashed up into one.

I see the lows – body bent over the sink, unable to stand, wrists grasping the taps, tears from the depths of within, the longing, the lost hope, the weakness, and the greatest worry, the worst fear – that it may never be.

Then I see the smiles - the rebuilt, rediscovered hope and joy, dates for scans, procedures, positive results, the beginnings… the fear to let yourself hope, but the desire to give it a go.

And now, the continued work - injections morning and night, tablets, acupuncture pins, vitamins, supplements, life changes, rest, treatments, medications, fridges, sharps bins, chemists, clinics, the money, hospitals – and waiting. 

So much waiting.
Waiting for results. 

Waiting for the day. 

Waiting for results of the day. 

Waiting for the next day. 

Waiting for the next and the next and the next..

I pull the needle out and wince at the sting.

I finally, tentatively start to see us as mothers. Mammy and mam, mum and mama. Our little family growing.

I see what might be – belly growing bigger, tears of joy telling friends, family, their hopes too; sickness, pushing, a newborn’s cry, skin to skin, tears of relief, exhaustion, cots, buggies, four hands joined on walks. Growing old, a family of three or four.

My poor, bruised belly will heal, our tears will turn to smiles, and we will mother, one day soon.

People Like Us

By Aisling Walsh

People like us - 

circling our different worlds, stretched over two continents, across two cultures -

were never supposed to meet. 

I was first to cross the border for work, then study and somewhere in between one heartbreak and a pandemic we matched on Tinder. 

People like us - 

White contra Morena, English contra Español, Woman contra Mujer - 

were never supposed to fall in love.

But you won me over with your dimpled smile, your love for cycling and your joy of greasy tacos slathered in chilli. 

People like us –

with our buzzcuts, flannel shirts, pink hair and other less visible but far more profound divergences – 

Were never supposed to marry. 

And though certain characteristics – our genders, our nationalities and other legalities – made this process extra onerous, we still managed a ceremony, a registry office and a party as family, friends and even some strangers came together, across two continents and three countries to share our joy. 

People like us –

whose passports do not match –

were never supposed to come back.  

But work, life and the promise of more adventures called us back. So we crossed my border, the one that demands a full dossier to prove our relationship, prove our marriage, prove our income, prove our employment, prove our address and countless other articles of evidence to demonstrate our legitimacy in being together on my side of the ocean. And though it felt sordid and unjust to have to prove our love to a government functionary we met for five minutes, were able to provide the necessary evidence and were awarded a stamp of approval that gives us a one year respite before we do it all again.

People like us –

who chose to be visible even when it still scares us –

were never supposed to live in a place like this.

But we found a house by the sea in the kind village I ran away from at 18 because I could no longer deal with the weight of feeling different. The kind of village where I thought people like us would never feel welcome. And even though we have won some funny looks and braved the odd catcall, we also found a community of people who are a lot like us. What a joy to discover that, 20 years after leaving home, visibility in Ireland is no longer confined to the cities and that were are not the only queers in the village.  

Bittersweet Tapestry

by Cayeleen Caulfield

Once, a thread bound our souls as one, 
woven from the thrill of stolen glances, a delicate bond, shimmering like sequins on satin.
Suddenly snapped by the weight of the fabric of society. 

Years slipped by like falling stitches, 
her taste now a distant flush, 
yet still it lingered... haunting. 

I watched her new love unfold, raw and relentless, 
my heart swollen with pride, yet heavy with sadness.
Her joy, a bittersweet melody I dared not hum. 

Starved and suffocated the seams of silence stitched my aspirations 

and the remnants of love crafted a life unbound by expectation.
Only a vibrant thread remained, 
waiting for the moment to break free.. liberation. 

I unravelled myself, thread by thread, 
the tapestry of the past, once woven tight, 
revealing the colours of my true self, 
a spectrum of love, bold,... bright.

Trans kids grow up

by Harley Mackingham

Some tears burn like acid

through my cheeks

Stained sadness forever

Embedded in my skin

Some tears sting the corners

Like a papercut

A simple sadness

A solitary weep

Some feel like a rush

A release

Rain during a heatwave

A warm cup on a cold day

Some feel like

nothing

Empty

Like inside

And some tears

Well they blaze across the sky

Streaking trails form a shining path

A thousand creations from one swift movement

A water droplet to a watercolour

A lifetime of pain to a child

Queer Joy

By Rona Hunt

there is magic in this.

eyes locked on the dance floor, bodies slick with sweat, 

windows fogged, beads dripping on the mirror glass, 

my laugh, her touch,

all encompassing but not intense,

it is light, I feel impossibly light

transcendent joy covers over me, 

wraps me up, so that

even when I step into the night air,

even when the rain begins to fall,

even when I never see her again,

nothing else feels like this,

it isn’t just more, it is a different beast entirely.