The End of Pride
After Ada Limón’s “The End of Poetry”
Enough of the rainbow flags and the stickers and the banners
on Bay street, enough of love is love and all you need is love and
love out loud and be proud, enough talk of the past and the present
and the progress we’ve made, enough protests, enough platitudes,
enough performances and parades, enough commenting and liking
and sharing on social media, enough of the Yas Queen, the drag
queen, the queer vibes only, enough of the queerbait, the click-
bait, the coming out and explaining, the coming out and explaining,
the coming out and coming out and coming out and explaining, enough
shout outs, enough hashtags, enough tagging on twitter, enough push
pins and pronouns and claims that love wins, enough of the I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to, I promise, I didn’t know, enough of the no offense,
but, the yes, but, the I understand, but, enough with the buts, with all
the excuses, and the excuses for the excuses, enough of the united
we stand, the together we rise, the talk of being shocked, but
not surprised, enough of queershaming, of victim-blaming, of dead-
naming and framing, enough flags at half-mast, eyes downcast,
enough of the red and the yellow and the orange and green, enough
of the blue, of the purple, of the pink shirt days—all the craze, enough
half-assessed policies and calls for equality, enough of trans rights are
women’s rights are human rights and trans lives matter, of trans men
are real men and trans women, real women, enough peeking
through peep holes and trying to find loopholes, enough sparkles,
enough jewels, enough bedazzle and bling, enough trumpets, enough
trombones, enough hate with no home, enough of the flamboyant,
effeminate, gay best friend and of guess what? you guessed it!
they all die in the end, I am asking you to help me
write a different end.
Pantoum for Halloween when my mom said, say cheese!
After Kay Ulanday Barrett‘s “Pantoum for recital when my mom said, “don’t let them see you cry”
As a child, I was dressed as a sunflower—blooming.
Against all odds, in the cold, a lonely flower.
In the picture, I stood there, radiating.
I was taught to be resilient.
Against all odds, in the cold, a lonely flower.
Still, I grew tall, aimed my pistil at the sun.
I was taught to be resilient.
Once, I was planted in the shade.
Still, I grew tall, aimed my pistil at the sun.
Undeterred, I dug my roots into the ground.
Once, I was planted in the shade.
All the witches said I would wilt, wither, waste away.
Undeterred, I dug my roots into the ground.
Meanwhile, the princesses pawned and posed for the princes.
All the witches said I would wilt, wither, waste away.
A wildflower, mistaken for a weed.
Meanwhile, the princesses pawned and posed for the princes.
In the picture, I stood there, radiating.
A wildflower, mistaken for a weed.
As a child, I was dressed as a sunflower—blooming.
Leighton Schreyer (they/them) is a writer, poet, and critically Mad queer activist in Toronto, ON, whose writing often explores themes of gender, sexuality, mental health, and the human condition. Their work has been featured in some of the world’s leading medical and literary journals, including The Sun, The New England Journal of Medicine, Journal of the American Medical Association, Hippocampus Magazine, Redivider, and more. Their writing has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. As a current medical student, Leighton is passionate about recentering the fundamental role that story plays in healthcare and caregiving, and about using narrative as a powerful tool to foster healing and human connection.
The Marbled Sigh 