24
my bed is not a safe place and I’m not sure if it ever will be. it makes dreaming
hard
so even after all these years I’m still a virgin flower blooming alone in some field pot. dozens of composition note books painted with all my impure thoughts are stuffed between the mattress, any time someone sleeps with me I only fall asleep after they do because I’m hoping the words between the sheets don’t crawl out in swarms armored in secrets unparalleled
that leave me lifeless on a floor with a hole in my jaw where my chin used to be.
the best advice my mom gave me was when her lips kept flapping against each other like sworn enemies fighting for destiny
as full tears lunged across her cheeks
her finger rose, “don’t ever end up like me”
I’m trying to do my best.

23

I still can’t go back to their house, the scent of vodka and stale taste of death hovers in a panic between all the walls. they all dance to the sound of lighters flicking and bottles hitting the bottom of a trash can. let me love you at a distance, away from conversations happening after 5pm so I know you’ll be sober, I’m guilt driven and your forgiveness that may never be offered will forever be painted on my eyes as I shower your face for a smile that isn’t broken.
back to square one, being an adult is really just being a child with more debt.

22.
The torn scapula of the hopefulness I can’t spell lays dormant further than my feet can ever kiss.

21

20

I’m trying to break the entire English language apart so the edges of the letters stop cutting me.
my hands get wrapped each time they are forced down to an empty page and I left bodies of paper bruised so black they formed letters. (sometimes it’s easier to paint with black)

19

18 the needle hugs the thick vein in my elbow in ways I wish my mother would
18 my brother does not speak to me
18 the man that fathered me
wishes he wasn’t anymore
18 my mother drinks more than the pope needs another painting in the vatican
18 my friends complain about cigarette prices and bad sex while I’m afraid a brick will shake hands my face

17
16
on my birthday this year, I wished I was dead and they all clapped for me without knowing
i’m a head conected to an apetite demanding self abuse,
hungry for cinematic like moments offering me a feast of imagination but my mind keeps making a wrong turn every sentence it drives down, I’m lost, the magic people speak of doesn’t happen for me the same way it does for everyone else, and I wonder if my brain broke or if god gave me eyes bought at some hole-in-the-wall thrift because I was molded to the burden of homosexuality, I’m a four letter name but each time I try to put the pieces together I never line up the way a straight man can

15

he smokes until his lungs are bloody, his eyes find mine, sting from the poison coated at the tip between each breathe needed, calls me a faggot, his cigarette flares up as it takes a breathe of its own fitted along the knuckles that tried to forget I was important
you were trying to rearrange your vocabulary for a better son, you replaced faggot with fists, they clenched together tighter than genuine compliments but hit me way harder, and language, again became something that wasn’t good for me.

14

13
scars make me horny, and it’s the only thing that does. I’ll always be content knowing my dick is smaller than his dignity.

12

11

10

9

I’m uncomfortable around people, or maybe they’re uncomfortable around me. I’m just trying to make sure some one smiles at me today…

8
7
6

I read small print words from books
-I’m kept after school and forced to repeat sentences with two different teachers who look at my eyes like there’s something wrong with them.

5
only two memories maybe less run through me.
flames licked the skin down to the filter she blew in my face.

4
her eyes are green but they fade into the color of destruction when her favorite drink goes to war against her lips.
3

2
1
0

a vacant female now bipolar from the shotgun shells that killed her father spreads dirts for a seed that hasn’t lost it’s mind. she buried it beneath the thoughts most of us speak. the tree souled inappropriately grew bigger than the ego of the son she wasn’t supposed to have.

———-

How many emotions can you stuff into a memory, how many spill out through the spaces between your teeth begging to be understood.

–(that are writtwn but never read)–
are stuffed between the mattress, any time someone sleeps with me I only fall asleep after they do because I’m hoping the words between the sheets don’t crawl out in swarms armored in secrets unparalleled leave me lifeless on a floor with a hole in my jaw where my chin used to be. I’m almost 25, the best advice my mom gave me was when her lips kept flapping against each other like sworn enemies fighting for destiny as full tears lunged across her cheeks her finger rose, “don’t ever end up like me”
I’m trying to do my best.
you’re only as sick as your secrets, but I took my medicine today. –these days I try to remember that crying is a form of growth.

–he buys me a new bed to make up for not remembering how old I am
23
it’s difficult to kiss, I still feel like I’m committing sin
I still can’t go back to their house, the scent of stolid vodka and stale taste of death hovers in a panic between all the walls. they all dance to the sound of lighters flicking and bottles hitting the bottom of a trash can. let me love you at a distance, away from conversations happening after 5pm so I know you’ll be sober, I’m guilt driven and your forgiveness that may never be offered will forever be painted on my eyes as I shower your face for a smile that isn’t broken.
back to square one, being an adult can be a drag sometimes

I’m not comfortable with my family, or maybe I’m just scared to be.
22 it finally occurred to me that maybe the value I think I define myself with is a lie. a butterfly never knows the beauty of it’s own wings, where is this beauty
21 i spend my birthday in an aa meeting. small chunks of burritos trail across my shoulder as I’m dragging her to bed, she won’t remember how the front end of her car is now busted in but she will remember to cheat on her husband again in the morning. I turned you into a monster.
20 death shook my hand for the fourth time, the damaged canister of triple used needles and stolen spoons was thrown into the fire by my step father’s hand. it spilled over the flame, my watery eyes and silent lips couldn’t understand why he was helping me. my mother held me but I didn’t want her to.

there was no expression on my face when he put my clothes back on for me. your name won’t leave me alone
a group of kids all bigger than I am makes me feel less than a man, waiting for the word faggot to fall off their mouth and punch me in my ears
I’m just trying to do what I can to make sure my step dad smiles at me today
I try to fantasize about female genitalia as often as I can and intentionally leave playboy magazines in random places to make sure I–hoping my family will find it so conversations during dinner can include my voice too.
my fingertips mold to become a bridge to escape artist techniques, I spend hours. these nimble fingers soared into the trash with extreme intention to piece together the shreds of sketchpad paper
-my hand reaches for pencils wishing they were loaded guns

drunk tongues trip over their words “you can’t be gay” was a phrase overused they wished it was a receipt from the register at a local drug store
I try to find my way through the maze upstairs and hope there is a flashing billboard reading “heterosexual/homosexual” on separate ends and I (that shines on one sign with a switch dictating if you’ll) can flip a switch and be whatever it is they want me to be, but god stopped me, flicked me like a skin tag and I flew abroad the night sky with shooting stars and right then I knew what it was to have an enemy. (that flashes to the appropriate sexuality depending on the position of the switch)

–why are you doing this to us?? (became a ritual which held more stature than the pledge
I retraced my steps looking for whatever it was I did to them
6
I read small print words from books
-I’m kept after school and forced to repeat sentences with two different teachers who look at my eyes like there’s something wrong with them.
3 some man that isn’t my father lives in the same house as I do
I’m stuck in a water bubble, and green eyed blonde haired ostriczied native American holds her hands over the pregnant stomach, with her baby’s father they ponder all the ways they’ll be better parents than their own to them.

every kiss I share still makes me feel like I’m engaging in sin

13 sex Ed is a conjunction of warm bodied confusion and the witnessing of new life released to this world, the alpha male preteen boy conversations about “banging out fine ass bitches” suggest that a womans outfit is louder than her voice and that I can’t be a man without being sexist
stop turning my skin into a flag. my emotional reaction to lifes circumstances is not dictated by bench presses or how many holes my dick has been in.

15 I write love stories in secret during the evening. all the lights are off in my room except the nightlight I keep hidden, I shut my eyes using both hands to lock them like blinds against a streak free window, I use silly puddy instead of lined paper, these ugly hands tear through opposition, they struggle hard to replicate an image of love, releasing my fingers from a dangerous grip, and every attempt to shape intimacy becomes a female body. love, is something these hands may never know.

18 the needle hugs me in ways I wish my mother would
18 my brother does not speak to me
18 my friends complain about cigarette prices and bad sex while I’m afraid a brick will kiss my face
18 compliments need to be tangible so when they seek an open ear I can strike it down like sea monster
16 a real man isn’t afraid to bleed he would say as menthol smoke stained his mouth. my arms make music, they became violins for sharp objects and would play every weekend in the devils lounge my skin splits open the way new books tell. my skin rips open the way the pages turn in a good book. the red droplets hit the sink in style that mimics a slipknot concert

0 she wants so badly to love something of her own. her mother criticized her blonde hair and her father enjoyed the taste of a shotgun

14 her favorite seat is the back of a police car, usually with no clothes on. the skin of a boy doesn’t fit the door of these sort situations. I force older age down my lungs with the cigarettes she left behind

12 I spend hours piecing together the war stories of two separate families

-I’m suspended from school due to a two page murder plot

19 I just realized I’ve been trying to prove myself worthy to those who will never appreciate.

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