When the harmonies in my ears died
I thought that the rhythm of my heart had simply fallen into
syncopated stutters of a life yet to begin.

So I waited for my pulse to settle back
into the familiar one-and-two-and that they said was
normal for a boy my age.

But then the wind whispered hollow through
the cracks in my skin like
stone.

There is nothing beautiful here.
There is nothing profound.
This is a confession.

I've littered my skin with blood ridden callouses
and blisters torn apart.

I've poisoned my body with chemicals and substances
all for the greater good.

I've left black inked testaments across my canvas
in the name of art.

I've stretched my skin with needles and plastic
so that I would stick out.

I've broken, repaired, shattered, healed, destroyed, salvaged
myself to appease the mirror.

But there is nothing beautiful here.
There is nothing profound.
This is a confession.

There is nothing beautiful here.

I turn the ring
and everything shifts.

Bit by bit
inch by inch
It glides around its track
but I'm never satisfied.

I twist and turn
my perspective evolving.

Each pass brings a new image
but it's never what I need
It's never what I'm looking for
Never.

So I let go
and let it wander free.

I let go.
And I begin to see.

I beg you to stay
right where you are.

For my sake
please.

If you take one step towards me
I'll take two for you

And drag my heart across the shore
to stand beside you.

It wasn't the promises slung around my neck
by your arms rigid with acceptance
and an unfamiliar love.

It wasn't the sticky skinned summer nights
wrapped in our friends sheets
stealing undeserved kisses.

It wasn't backstage buried beneath piles of wood
or sorted between hunks of metal
next to the man I could never be.

It wasn't a ****** spotlight or an applause that
really wasn't meant for me
or even for us, but for them.

It wasn't a song written by a boy who
never stood a chance standing in the shadow of
a blonde haired
blue eyed
somebody.

It was finding solace in hearts and minds that
like mine
were not suited for the monochromatic
day to day
parking lot prison breakout
of the afternoon.

Yours
that were too distracted by the
galaxies carved between our bones pressed so
tightly together
and the symphonies inked between our teeth.

It’s the sound of old, pop-punk blaring through my car speakers at two in the morning.
It’s the way my breath becomes visible late at night.
It’s the sound of our shoes on the woodchips in the park.
It’s the smell of grape Swisher Sweets in our hair and the taste of ****** tobacco on our tongues.
It’s the oversized hoodies.
It’s the neon beanies.
It’s the energy drinks.
It’s the last minute bonfires.
It’s the deep talks on the swings.
It’s the way your hand felt in mine.
It’s the way you felt in my arms.
It’s the sound of our laughter, dripping with the inevitability of the future.
It’s the feeling of growing up.
It’s the feeling of not wanting to grow up.
It’s the changing leaves.
It’s the morning frost.
It’s the end of summer.
It’s the start of tomorrow.
It’s over.

-trj