Read the stories. Feel the grit. Come as you are
New drops weekly from Adam Rye: queer country confessions, essays, community dispatches, and bold baritone verses.
This is where I write it like I lived it: loud, femme, country-soft, and fully uncloseted.
Writing about church trauma, queer joy, bad dates, chosen family, neurodivergent play, and the long road to being okay.
It is all real. It is all mine. And if you have ever felt like too much or not enough, maybe it is a little yours too.
Raw, healing, messy, and divine in the way I say so.
To the Healers Who Never Healed Me
For the altar calls. The prayer circles. The hands pressed heavy on my back like they were trying to pin me to the faith.
This poem is for every queer kid told to close their eyes and wait for God to fix them. You're not broken. You never needed their altar.
the chats, the chats, the chats
Ever been left on read after opening your heart in the DMs? This isn’t a love story — it’s a callout, a boundary, and a whole damn poem for the ghosted gays, the slow fade, and the ones who never showed up.