Tucked into the quiet corners of Peach Palace is The Library—a sacred nook for the dreamers, the scribblers, the lovers of language. It’s not your grandma’s library (though she’s welcome here too). This is a queer, candlelit archive of feelings. A spellbook of poems written on napkins. A place where words are worshipped and silence holds space for magic.

The Library is where poets gather—not to perform, but to discover. To read each other’s work by moonlight. To scribble in margins. To cry over stanzas. To write love letters to their younger selves and scream into journals with glitter pens. It’s for deep dives, soft landings, and unapologetic expression.

We’re building a zine-bound archive of queer-written, kink-friendly, radically honest literature. We want your heartbreak haikus, your witchy essays, your smutty prose, your grief spells, your love notes to gender euphoria.

Come as you are. Come write with us.

Love, Heartbreak & the Return of the Sun

Love cracks us open. It arrives like morning light—golden, loud, impossible to ignore. It teaches us to believe in soft places, in the way someone’s voice can make your whole body feel like a song. But when it leaves, it leaves loud too. Heartbreak is a collapse, a winter of the soul. You forget how to breathe. You forget you were ever anything but alone.

And yet—the sun always remembers.

Even in the ache, something begins to stir. You water your plants. You clean your altar. You put on lip gloss just to go to the corner store. You cry into the poem and let it live. Slowly, without asking for permission, the light creeps back in. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it makes space for it to coexist with joy, with silliness, with horny hope.

You remember how good it feels to laugh with your whole chest. To be held by friends who love you on purpose. To kiss yourself in the mirror and mean it.

This is your reminder: grief is holy, and healing is real. The sun doesn’t apologize for setting—and neither should you. Let yourself rise again, as many times as it takes.