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It's Shanti, your queer baby sister here! 

Ashanti Marshall is a digital archivist, experiential writer and staff scribe at For The Scribes, spearheading Recovering Softcover, an advice column catering to writers and their inner woes within their craft and themselves. Based in Chicago, being a fat, black queer and femme moment in time. Their relationship to the practice of understanding makes room for explorations, experimentations, mistakes, failures and curiosities in their writing. Connect with them on Twitter and Instagram asking you all the right, real, riveting questions.




Love knows that love knows nothing. Love is sure how it feels, even if love can’t gather the words, set them out and articulate it. Love understands fear and rejection and shame. Love knows what it needs.

Alice Walker said in ‘Forgive Me if My Praises’, the fifth part:

“What I need I know” - I’m not here to question you because awareness and understanding tell me things about you. At least, they want to. They really do, but I don’t want a secondhand account of you. Of love.

I want you open, I want to open.

I want you present, I want to be t(here).

I want you deep, I want to deepen.

I want you for me, I want all of me for you.

Love knows right now, so let’s drop the facades and be it. And be in it. And make it. And raise it. And remember it. And listen to it. And dialogue with it. And embrace it. And call on it. And praise it. And do for it. And work for it. And create space for it, with it. And welcome it as we welcomes ourselves to each other.

The first encounter of love is normally First Corinthians 13:4-8:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

Tell me, was your first like that? Any of the other times love stopped by? Hell, is yours like that? I always hoped you’d stay, just a moment longer. I wanted to remember your name in my mouth. Hold it and keep for treasure in my throat. Let it nourish my insides - but it kept going and passed right through me like it was running late. Shit.

Is love this? Is love shit? Sometimes. Possibly, regularly. It depends and that truth doesn’t keep love sure and protected either.