I speak to you of love
and you speak back to me,
With abject apathy
and a lack of drive,
about the ease
a thing to romanticise.
You are purer than I,
A special sort of specimen
Untouched by any human,
Safe like this with only friends
To confide in.
None of the aggravation
No women, certainly no men.
Oh dear lets not pretend
That you are just
(as of yet un-penned)
'The girl who could not love,
That's it, go home
Your dead appetite
I see is simply a disguise.
Each night you gorge
on gorgeous lies.
Quite the oxymoron,
Twixt joy and pain you cry,
Into the lines of another book
( Is it lovelier than I ?)
The lines blur,
the words are lost,
The world has passed you by.
I can barely bear to talk to anyone,
so focused am I on my work,
night after night staring down the computer screen,
day after day lost in books,
any information is a chance to get distracted,
any communication is a snap back to the present.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
"Pardon? You're a bit behind on that one," said the blue-boxed response.
"I know. I'm behind on everything."
I don't know how long it's been,
for no longer can I measure in hours spent asleep
nor hours spent procrastinating.
Every minute is either reading or not reading,
and I can say for certain only that I have more reading minutes to account for.
"It's fine. You're fine."
It's never fine.
"I'm sorry. "
I don't know what time it is,
or how the rock in my hand made it across the room.
I run across to the curtained-off closet
and kneel down next to my forgotten projects,
wire and beads echoing past happiness.
"Why are you sorry?" asks the confused message.
"Because I was stupid. I thought..."
No I didn't
The room is blurry, fuzzy, shaking,
and I don't want to leave this corner of my closet.
I forgot I was wearing headphones but now
all I can think is the lyrics coming through
and they're not the cheerful kind,
they're the kind that let me cry for once,
at least till I get a grip.
"How was your day?"
It's got to have been days, weeks, months,
and I still avoid contact
"Fun fact: about 1% of the world population identifies as asexual."
If I don't respond she'll leave me alone
If I don't respond she'll know something's wrong
The adults in the living room
don't bother to keep their voices down,
and I'm the topic of conversation
and they're both wrong.
The memory of the sensation (but not the act) of
stumbling around the yard, desperate for respite,
and of falling in front of my bed and sobbing
without knowing how I got there
is fresh in my mind.
"Maybe we advanced her too fast."
"She's never had an issue before and I don't see why her grade should be so low all of a sudden."
I know that mine is not the worst of situations.
Sleep deprivation and academic stress
are not unique problems,
and the blue message box tells stories from an imperfect existence,
but somehow I can not face my life
and I dwell in the green message box,
and in whatever else I can find to hide in.
"Are you up for a mission?"
I can't see straight, I'm so tired
"What sort of mission?"
"I'll share you the instructions. I need some made up words."
I'm still at a charity astronomy show.
"As soon as I get home I'll hop on."
It's after 9:00 pm
I've spent nights staring at the message boxes
on my green Pantech's screen,
ready with a shoulder and a slap in the face
when I need a hand myself
because when you can't have help all you can do
to distract from your own trouble
is focus on someone else's.
"It's a cry for help."
"I get it but I can't emotionally connect to it."
"I'm sorry... I'm getting too involved in this stupid story."
"No! I'm just emotionally inept."
"I need help and trying to explain emotions to Abby is like talking to a brick wall."
"Sorry... I'll just go to bed now. Night."
There's a spider on the ceiling
so I have yet another excuse not to sleep
as if I needed one.
I want to be there for everyone so no one will ever have to be there for me,
but of course,
I need something to be there for me.
"Do you have your history book on you?"
"What chapter, what topic, and what format?"
"You're so cute, I bet you have guys hanging off of you.
You could have any boy in the town.
I dont see why you don't have a boyfriend."
Thats because I don't want one.
Shut your face now,
I dont want a boyfriend.
I want a girl.
Try to understand that.
I dont care if you accept it,
But give understanding a shot.
I'm not asexual.
I do find people attractive,
But not particularly guys.
Quit making all these comments,
And just ask me.
I know its going through your head.
You're in denial.
You're worse than I was.
The next time I tell you,
"I dont want a boyfriend."
Let the words leave your mouth,
"Would you want a girlfriend?"
Just say it.
If I want
to tell you something
I'll write it
I want copious amounts of things.
I want to be able to read to you
without the fear of
boring you .
I want to witness the half grown smile
that you carry in the morning
when you just aren't happy.
I want to be able to touch
oh your fragile yet strong skin-
when you just come out of the shower.
I want to feel your breath
on the top on my collarbones
when your body is pressed
so tightly against mine.
I want to feel the warmth that reaches
my cold skin
from just one touch from your
I want to tuck those hands in between
my thighs-in the most asexual way-,
while I sleep.
I want to press my lips
against the side of your face
when things aren't
I want to listen to you
after a long day .
I want to continuously
bicker when you ask me
"What color is the sky?"
only because I know you'll
come up with some odd
explanation for why I'm not right.
I want nothing,
I need nothing,
I seek for nothing more
than to just want you
and have you want me
Once upon a time, there was a frog.
It was just a normal frog, nothing more, nothing less.
- - -
One day, it caught a fly and was going to eat it when it shouted:
"Don’t eat me!! I’m a magical fly. I’ll give you some of my magic!"
The frog couldn’t understand what magic does.
It was contented with just eating and surviving and reproducing, it didn’t need magic.
And so it ate the magical fly.
The next morning, when he woke up, he felt taller than usual.
When he saw his reflection in the pond, he stumbled backwards in shock.
He turned into a human!
After awhile, he realized that the magical fly caused this.
He wandered around aimlessly and stumbled upon a playground.
A human boy much smaller than him was reading a book with a picture of a frog on its cover.
Not knowing about human politeness, he snatched it.
He flipped through the pages and tore out the page of a female frog kissing a human man.
If he is a male-frog-turned-human, then he must kiss a female frog?
That’s what he must do.
He rushed back to the pond and realized he couuldn’t tell the genders of the frogs there.
Frantically, he kissed every frog he could catch.
After a moment of silence, nothing happened.
Confused, he went back to look at the picture again.
Maybe he should try kissing a female human instead?
With that thought in mind, he set out to look for female humans to kiss.
Unfortunately, every one of them pushed him away, and one even hurt his face with her hand.
Even more confused than before, he sat slumped against a tree.
He sat there the whole day, watching people who walked past him.
He didn’t realize this before, but humans have their own set of social rules.
He had to practise these rules before he could get close to a human and go back to his simple frog life again.
A month later, the frog-man managed to assimilate himself into human society.
He worked odd jobs and managed to befriend a man who is a university french lecturer he met at a cafe.
In fact, the frog-man was the one who approached him after learning about the term “french kiss”.
It has to be called that because only french people kiss, right?
Through him, he could probably find a french female and return to being a frog!
The frog-man found himself closely attached to the french man.
They would often eat, drink and talk till late at night.
They even had some impromptu ballroom dancing together when both were very drunk.
The frog-man had a lot of fun with him.
He thought, “this is what ‘friendship’ must be.”
One night, the frog-man was invited to the french man’s house for dinner.
It was a candlelight dinner, which was supposedly odd for two men, but the frog-man wasn’t familiar enough with human society to realize this.
After dinner, the french man switched on some jazz music and slowly approached him.
His eyes were locked on the frog-man and the frog-man started to feel odd.
The french man started tilting his head towards him.
The frog-man was shocked and recognized this gesture.
He was trying to kiss him!
For some reason, the frog-man’s heart started pounding loudly.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He knew that this was wrong.
How could two males have such feelings for each other?
How will they reproduce and continue the human race?
"This is wrong! This is wrong! This is wrong!" He shouted in his head.
But for some reason, he couldn’t turn away.
Because it felt right.
Before he knew it, their lips collided, and when he opened his eyes, he was smaller than before.
He was a frog again.
Bewildered, he quickly clambered and hopped out of his house and hid in a nearby pond.
"It’s finally over. I’m a frog again." He sighed in relief.
He was happy again, to be back in his simple days as a frog.
He has to be happy, even if he’s not.
He has to be happy.
But he’s not.
Because there was no way he could turn into a human again.
He often found himself risking his life just to check on how the french man is doing.
Whenever the french man looked sad, he himself felt sad.
Back at his pond home, the female frogs didn’t interest him.
He couldn’t think about being with a female sexually again.
The male frog was shamed by the other frogs for refusing to help in carrying on the frog line.
Eventually, after spending an eternity alone, he found a way to do it by himself.
- - -
Once upon a time, there was a frog.
It was just a frog that went through love and loss, and in the midst of that, found its calling.
It was just a normal, asexual frog.
MISSING PERSON REPORT CASE NUMBER DATE
NAME AGE ALIAS/NICKNAMES
Waldo 20ish Wally, Fodhouli, Jura, Valdík, Holger, Volli, Valdas, Hugo,
Vallu, Charlie, Walter, Efi, Hetti, Vili, Valli, Willy, Gile, Ali
EYE COLOR HAIR COLOR HAIR STYLE
beady black brown wavy, unkempt
SCARS; MARKS; TATTOOS SPECIAL INDENTIFIERS
I❤Wilma-right butt cheek tattoo Harry Potter round glasses, magical walking stick
I❤Wenda-left butt cheek tattoo
CLOTHING/ACCESSORIES DESCRIPTION DETAILED
red-and-white striped shirt
bobble hat with red pom pon
DATE AND TIME LAST SEEN DIRECTION OF TRAVEL
during my boring childhood towards Times Square blending into a red and white striped Austria Day Parade crowd
Waldo is a quiet two-dimensional person, keeps to himself and is definitely asexual & claustrophobic
OFFICE USE ONLY
COMMENT OFFICER/SHEILD NO.
I suspect Odlaw abducted Waldo, but who am I, Sherlock Holmes? W. Whitebeard/50-5088
NYPD Midtown South Precinct 357 West 35th Street, New York, NY, 10001 (212) 239-9811
For my related piece please visit:
Missing Person Report: Austin Police Department
Words can leap off the page.
Words can cut like a knife.
Come home from watching Lubovitch's dancers
Doing crazy eights upon the Joyce stage,
Rat-a-tat and seconds to bed tablet two-handed,
Some of thy words to keep, relish and visualize.
Tongue-taste delights, imagery dreamed, conceive'd!
Read four or five and I am
Unrelenting - knocks planet Earth
Off its axis.
Star watching observatories call
"What's going on?"
But hey, they don't take the
I don't make
Explaining soular word flares.
Black and bold apropos.
Its asexual attendants,
Greet me, as I lay me down to sleep,
Souls inferno'd true confessions slap
Reality TV down to a pathetic joke.
Words, thorns without roses,
Bodies ready for extreme unction,
Punks puncturing peace with no punctuation,
Google "sayings about words," thousands exist, pithy.
Amusing, insightful, but can't uncover any that relieve
the way needed now, for this crisis state.
Say it slow with your hands clasping your head,
The electric prod stabs connect your ears, but
Like water seeking release, head southbound to test the
Cavities of the heart's boundaries, probe for the
Satisfying silent screwing screaming weak spots.
Say it r e a l slow,
feel the sounds of a summary of
Many other words, subsets of misery etc. etc.
Reminder of the dinging ringing stinking stingers,
Happy in their dirty work,
Here a hurt, there a hurt,
Everywhere a hurt hurt.
The shhh sound,
Is the bitter taste residue down sinister,
Ends in it,
No wash of the body or the mouth
Removes the endless shhh sound that is the exact
Opposite of a silencing hush.
I have words too.
Though I am not now,
Next to you,
You will hear my voice,
Out loud, out now, speaking
My words, recite or
Feel just like those squeezing hugs parents
Give their kids when they are six seven and eight.
Hugs so tight the breath stops, but no minded,
For the message well received,
You are mine, my always, unencumbered,
Safely will this hugging touch see you through the night.
Foolish parents thinking those hugs unnecessary,
When children are "old," you know, like
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, when
Needs defeating then, needs them hugs,
Now more than ever.
Are the arm unexpected slung fastball of simple affection,
Over and around a shoulder sent and spent,
A best friend's gesture that says, I know, I care.
A costless measure that measures in caring
What no precious metal could dare contend.
Are hands, a corps, a division of single soldiers,
Stroking thy cheek, caressing thy forehead,
Corpsmen coming for the wounded with comfort,
Antiseptic syringes, stretchers to take away
What needs taking away.
Are a neck architecturally designed to take your
Head, be a pillow resting place, your bird house to
Shelter or hide, as you need, see fit.
There is no rent charged,
Except for what I pay you in the coin of comfort.
Drum beating chest for your rest, each beat a
Message of connection, my beats purposed to
Remind you that thousands beats more yours,
So look up raise up refreshed head, to listen
For it's the song of steady, a reminder, a remainder,
So many much chances yet.
The drowning pools where anguish suffocates,
For it cannot breathe in a world of words of
Pure oxygen that resuscitate, filter, restore.
Each breath a clarification, each one word speaking,
No more, no mas, done, enough,
Words can leap off the page,
No, you try, you hear it, the voice clarion,
These new words that travel up thine arms
Holding until the until, no end demanded,
Awe and then some,
Healing words, meant to be read back to me,
So I can rest knowing you've lesson-learned,
Homework done, cause it is your words speaking,
Become words of yours,
Said and sung, simpler and better...a fav tune of mine...
Falling Slowly Lyrics
by Glen Hansard.,
I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now
Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing it loud
Sexuality is a spectrum.
The rain doesn’t just fall
On the sexual and asexual
Sexuality is all-encompassing.
Life can live anywhere between the ends
And the ends are really more like
Because nobody is really purely
So shut up
You know where
You can shove your ignorance
sometimes i worry because i am nothing
i am nothing at all
agender and aromantic and asexual and sometimes i feel almost ahuman
but then i remember that some of the most beautiful things are nothing
the space and the night and what i like to hear is in the bad part of your mind
sometimes you dont have to be anything at all
I see straight lines
Binding giant rectangles to collapse
On the nature of what's below
Animals of asexual, mechanical, foreign disposition
I don't think I know what it means to be solid
To be perfect
But as much as I love almosts
They're telling me to grow up now
To find a rectangle to waste away in
But my ghost wasn't meant to be form-fitted
I wasn't meant to be cubic.