Out loud.

Out loud.
Shout, if you must. Do not silence yourself.
Live, love, create, write, sketch, paint, sing, read, build, dance. Keep on dancing. Loud and proud.
I love you.
That is all.


stephanie birch

Today. Death by hate.

I have so few words. My heart is racing with my thoughts. My jaw has been clenched since this morning. My body is in a fit, rather a rage. It is physically demanding to feel it all.
Today, I am angry and I will not hide it. I do not run from my anger. I will not keep calm and fucking breathe on. I will not numb this. Not now. Not ever. Anger is a motivator. To act, to move. To love the fucking shit out of life. My anger is loving. Prayer is not enough.
Words are not enough.
This post is not enough.
This is the world we live in. Where death is driven by hate. This thing called hate, is learned. If you stand by your homophobic ways, your racist, bigoted, classist, sexist ways, violence against others through thoughts, words, actions, or suggestions then hit the unfollow button right now.
It is unfathomable to me how we keep parading bullshit gun rights to arms that kill by the masses. A weapon that fires rounds, I repeat, ROUNDS. No one needs this weapon. I’m looking to the disgusitng belief systems, the policiticans who pocket money from the NRA, empty condolences, to profiteers, to all for the sake of “rights to bear arms” poor excuse for lack of action to reform.
Inaction is an action.
I sure hope that anger is a motivator to keep spreading love and igniting that love out loud and proud.

This is not up for discussion.

Go out and fucking love the shit out of this world.

stephanie birch

When I say you, I mean me

When I say you, I mean me.
I don’t write for you, I write for me. I don’t speak for you, I speak for me. I don’t collect for you, I collect for me. I don’t create for you, I create for me.
Like pages to a diary, this has become a digital map of life, lessons, yearnings, and needs. It has its certainty and siphons with uncertainty.
Sometimes these words are torn from my bound journal. Sometimes they start here in this text box. Sometimes they end up on folds of paper, a box to collection of passed notes, like days of classroom.
These are my words.
Sometimes they trigger.
Sometimes they chase.
Please know this.
I don’t write to trigger you, I write to trigger me.
I don’t write to chase you, I write to chase me.
If you’re feeling something within you, that’s within me, realize we are the connection to the correlation bound between the shapes of letters taken to screen. The invitation is to go inside of yourself in order to see. In order to feel. It’s this recognition within me that is within you. #wordiness

stephanie birch

In heat.

In heat.
I move to be moved.
I don’t follow enclosures of safety. The stuff that keeps securities at bay. If you’re rising to the occasion, it will be at times you get shaky. It will be when you feel tinged of resistance. It will be unsure. It will be questionable. The intellectual will poke the scars, give nay-say speeches, and bullshit excuses. You’ll suffocate and fizzle only to gravel at the sameness and ease of comfort. If you tread the superficial you’ll turn to the crowd-pleasing ways and net your worth turned over to a system. Like a production line to serve half-truths, not enough-ness, be like him, be like her, the unattained. Numbers, production, paychecks, signatures of exclusions will tether you to molds of society.

Stay pretty and skinny.
They say.

Don’t speak too much.
They say.
Don’t write words, like “fuck” or be too emotional.
They say.
Be you, oh wait, not like that.
They say.
Taken to a cookie cutter, tastefully, for the delights and fantasies for others. You’ll have to assert yourself and penetrate the superficial.
This is the game.
You can walk off the field and set yourself on fire.
This is how you come into your own. There are few to exist here, one at a time, you rise. It won’t always be agreeable. It won’t always be light. It will be fucking real. And. That is where you are free.
I am fire. On my own.
I am chaos. On my own.
I come alive. On my own.
I am love.
On my own.
The ownership of me.
This is how I give myself to you. It’s all within, not the drop of another
 I’m inside of myself.

stephanie birch