#PrideOnThePage Day 7: BLOOM
How I found the words for what I could not name—and why that matters.
We rarely love what we cannot name. For a long time, I had no name for the part of me that lived between gender’s approved categories. No story. No daylight. No dusk.
I resisted it—hard. Not because it was wrong, only because it did not fit the scripted narrative handed to me: either/or, right/wrong, man/woman, sun/moon. And most insidiously: what was allowed in the bedroom, and by whom, and with what permission.
For years, I lived as if life came in only two halves: Night or Day. You chose one. You did not speak of the other. You certainly did not speak of the space between, the slow melt of shadow into light, of dawn into dusk, of all that lies uncontained.
Yet one day—after finally laying down that old, prudish, bigoted rulebook about bodies, desires, permissions—something shifted.
Through the smallest crack, a sprout emerged. It had waited so long underground. It did not ask permission. It simply grew: stubborn, tender, fierce. It said: Here I am. Your non-binary Jay. I was always here.
Now I tend this bloom each day. I let it take up space. I let it be seen. I name it. And in naming it, I love it more fiercely still.
Bloomspell
Bloom is a stubborn thing—
seed in shadow, hushed, unseen,
pressed in earth of either/or,
waiting.
Night turns, soil breathes,
Rain runs fingers through the dark.
Crack.
One root curls,
one shoot dares.
Bloom names itself by growing.
Not rose, not reed,
nor oak nor ash—
something in between.
Stem of riverbend,
leaf of dusk and dawn,
petals shifting shade to shade
through hours that others miss.
Bloom says: Name me—Jay.
Bloom says: See me—They.
Bloom says: I was always here—
biding beneath their words.
And when the bloom unfurls—
tender, fierce,
in light that takes no sides—
the heart remembers.
We love what we name.
We save what we love.
Bloom
Bloom is on the move again,
pushing through cracks of what was sealed,
under laws, beneath ideals.
Old soil packed with proper words—
he/she, this/that—
roots pressed flat.
Then rain—unasked—arrived,
soft and steady, seeping deep.
A tendril reached, a name unsought,
curled through dark to find the heat.
Now, stalk through stone,
leaf through frame,
small green flags that claim the space.
Walls flake. Rules rust.
The bloom climbs fast—
shutters part to let it pass.
Petals spill through keyholes,
paint the air with scent and hue.
No longer hidden: bright and plain—
here is Jay,
here is They,
blooming where they choose.
I wanted to be / but instead I became
And because it somehow overlaps and has to do with blooming and becoming I share a poem here I did for VERSE TRAPS
💚✨ VERSE TRAPS 2025: DAY SEVEN ✨💚
Today's prompt is for the shapeshifters, the ones who outgrew their first skin. The ones who carry a thousand selves inside them, all unfinished, all still whispering. Today's prompt: "I wanted to be / but instead I became—" → Use this as your opening line. Write about the version of yourself you wanted, the one you became, the ghosts in between. The glitches. The grief. The glory.
I wanted to be / but instead I became
I wanted to be an artist / instead I became an administrator. almost an economist first — five years trapped in grey halls. girls with their blond shields and polished smiles. boys in cheap suits, eyes empty. professors droning, air thick with dust and rules. my body fought each hour. locked tighter. burned hotter. pain rising, memory fading, life shrinking. I fled. became administrator. became machine. six jobs in one skin. “I can’t” never entered my mouth. neither did rest. gadgets made it faster. first computer, 1981. mine, 1983. first mobile, 1989. first PDA, mid-90s. Blackberry, 2001. iPhone, 2010. always on. always reachable. always running. 150 hours a week. to outrun grief. to outrun the blank places in memory. to carry the legacies of the dead — partner, mother, father — to hold the company together with bleeding hands. loyalty. to my late partner. to my mother. to my father. to my brother. to my employees. to my cat. to the ghosts whispering “more.” one day I asked: how do you define loyalty? she said: first of all — I am loyal to myself. the floor tilted. loyal to myself? I had never known this was allowed. then the quieter voice inside me asked: if you leave them all out — how exhausted are you? I answered — and the machine cracked. fifteen minutes driving. fifteen minutes resting. eighteen months now — unmaking the machine. and now — I am an artist. I am a writer. I am my Self — the one I had been missing all along. I am no longer a machine. I do not run. I stand. unfinished. whole. alive.
Starting tomorrow ✍️ #PrideOnThePage Week 2: RESISTANCE (Power, Protest, and Survival) (June 8-14)
https://wlplookout2create.substack.com/p/prideonthepage-week-2-resistance
🛡️ What have you survived—without losing your voice?
This week on #PrideOnThePage, we enter Resistance: a 7-day reflection on power, protest, and survival. No need for polish. No need for proof. Just one word, one spark, one moment of truth—each day.
🛡️ Week 2: Resistance (Power, Protest, and Survival)
Power, protest, survival. This week centers the language of boundaries, defiance, and what remains after fire.
These prompts hold space for grief, grit, and fierce clarity.
Here, we write from the burn and the boundary. From what we’ve survived, reclaimed, and said no to.
This week honors your fire—your fierce clarity, your right to define yourself, your refusal to be erased.
I truly hope for your continued participation, as it is a pleasure to read every one of your contributions:
DIANA ADMIRE Kris Winters Jude (they/them) Lady Libertea Alison J! Leeron Heywood Tess McCarthy Rey Katz (they/them) Wendi Gordon Lily Pond Rey Somatics Robin Taylor (he/him) Sunbeamdream Lee Summers Bo Ea WilM Cassandra Zilinsky Keith Aron
How to show your appreciation…
Consider clicking the heart ❤️ at the top or bottom of the post. It helps others discover this newsletter and brightens my day.
Wild Lion*esses Lookout is a working studio—a space for creative work, vision, and collaboration.
Here, I share poetry, photography, digital art, and design—alongside professional support in editing, ghostwriting, authenticity reads, and consulting. This is a grounded space shaped by lived experience, artistic skill, and care. If this work resonates, consider becoming a paid subscriberfor $10/month. You can see what I offer paid subscribers and founding members on my About page
Prefer to give once?
You can leave a one-time donation or buy me a coffee and Monty’s cat food, or just to say “I see you.” Every bit is felt.
Your support keeps this space honest, independent, and alive.
Thank you. 💚
A short introduction and three poems. Each are beautiful in themselves. In reading I can understand how names can hold us back or awake us to our dreams. And how you were able to free yourself and allow your art to flourish. Very powerful.