by Scout Graves (they/them)

Photography by Silje-Marie Svendsen.

Trigger Warning: suicidal ideation mention

I go here where the sky is red

at night. Where its’ grey tabby morning

Light means the sink leaks.

I go here fruited with

Memories held in the jam jar

On the windowsill; I go here

So candle wax won’t

be stencilled to a stone in frothy

Grass that doesn’t grow and

So you never have to scatter me over

Cliffs you’ve never been to. I go here

So the only ash of my need

Heats our evening water to boil. Where the sky is

Red at night and tabby grey in the morning

Light: os seus mãos, as suas mãos

Scout Graves

Scout Graves is an American writer and paraprofessional, working towards a teaching certification in elementary and early childhood education and an MA in museum studies in the archival and conservation sciences. Born in Jacksonville, North Carolina, they have lived in Ontario, Hawaii, Connecticut, and across the West and East of Ireland. The body of their work is informed by their turbulent and unusual life experiences, influenced most noticeably by a distinct autistic sensory perspective, and by their background as an American agender lesbian living with profound physical and developmental disabilities. Raised in a family of musicians and explorers, Scout finds intimate inspiration in unexpected places within the arts, culture, and the natural world. With a proclivity for lyricism being both their signature strength and an Achilles’ Heel, their goal as a writer has been to learn how to effectively translate a profoundly autistic mindset into something that convinces an audience. Scout’s dream is to see their writing on a bookshelf, and to give back to their loved ones by having something to show for their support.

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