Patriot of life and love
And all things soft and gentle
Rewrite our history simply this time.
I know your hands can handle the unwrappings of fate
They are older and thicker palms than mine
Inscribe these epitaphs of time lost
Sign them for me to remember
Remind me of the distance
How misery loves company
How love resents all that’s complacent and easy
Give way to anger
All within reason
Gnaw at the iron bars of reality
Like I do all the time, looking back
Its all I do
Forgive me for the underpinnings of my nature
I wish there was more blood to bleed
The well has run dry, but at least my tears are still wet with the memory of you
I hope I stay sad forever
At least then we can exist in the same world
At least then we can exist to each other
At least then, you’re still there.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 12:19 AM UTC
I am not.
And in that moment, an unquenchable rage all but consumed me. The innocence he once clung to exposed to nothing but the remnants of the child he believed himself to be. To his dismay, he was anything but. He knew with each minute elapsed I had been counting the times he glanced between my
eyes.
lips.
eyes.
lips again.
He knew because I was doing the same, and we were hungry.
Common tactic I would use to lure in the next one. With ease foregoing any pleasantries for conviviality. “Let’s be friends.” “I quite like you.” Holding his chin, eyes tilted downward and dark, closer than he knows I should be. He lets me do it, and the best part—He doesn’t have the slightest premonition that this is no two-player game.
I am feeding.
These were some of the idiomatic expressions I relied on to make of sweet fruit, my meal.
I was always hungry.
Since childhood there were signs I am sure many ignored either out of apathetic disconcern with my well-being or, perhaps, fear I lacked such capacity to change. Those who’ve past tried were lost on me; what silly nostrums…
I, for one, truly do believe it could not have been different. I have always been an animal trapped in cage. Gnawing bars and biting at hands. The one you end up having to shoot out back in the end. “Sorry.” “We tried.”
That’s quite alright.
I often feel as if I exist within oscillating abstractions of myself. Concepts rather than an absolute self. Not transcendental or opulent, nor omnipotent or anything of the sort. Just an experience. A show. Entertainment. That is what I am to my core. Don’t bother trying to pick me apart. I really am nothing, and I have got nothing to hide. Every question you ask I will have a different answer to. There is nothing to interpret, and I am certainly not lying. In that moment you are, for whatever intent and purposes, experiencing the real “me.” Whatever implications that may have, I concede. But for all you religious people. That is how I feel.
I’ve learned that I do feel a lot. The glass pane I am viewing you through is a mirror. I see what you want. What could make you happy. What could make you laugh. What could make you cry. And I arrange my muscles, and thoughts, and mien accordingly. This has made me very good at detecting emotions I like: fear, humiliation, lust, excitement. These are good because I understand them, and often I quite enjoy feeling them. Know that if anything at all,
I am intentional.
I harbor vigorous disdain for bravado, charisma, observance, or whatever other adjacencies that may scratch my mirror, or force my hand at engaging on a human level. I do not want to be human. I want to experience it. Do not interrupt me.
It vexes me.
I get angry a lot. No one around me would describe me as an angry person but I am angry a lot. I get angry when I am told what to do, when one might suggest I am making the wrong choices, when people are concerned. They don’t know me. They do not know that I am not one of them. I am watching you. You are simply a player in a game that I am hedging bets on. Manipulating, or at least trying to do so. There is no second “self” in the room with you. Whatever you see is you, you are naked, sitting in front of me. And I am watching the way your skin wrinkles, eyes squint, bones smell, the heat your body emits when I touch you, or make a joke, or divulge an insecurity you did not know you had. In a nice way of course.
I am nice.
The center of the party really. The main attraction. The bellowing operatic voice at the dinner table. The hand yielding pints of cider and inciting bouts of laughter. A smile or touch of a hand. Grazing your thigh or waist. It was not an accident. Nothing I do is. Think about it.
Think about it all night.
I quite enjoy the idea of strangers touching themselves to the idea of me. That is why I curate every aesthetic choice to their wildest fantasies. My “identity” is conditional, reliant on whatever you need. I am very careful with these choices as to not cause upset. Or confusion. I manage my choices clearly. When I don’t: I lie. This is one of the few foolish mistakes. I would say it is most likely my biggest fault. However, I care not to change it. It suits me. Or whatever you think “me” is.
Let me tell you something. People are stupid. Stupid and simple. And that is the **** best thing about them.
This is why I make minimal and careful choices about my appearance. I choose inoffensive and agreeable alterations, rather than rash, permanent ones. I like to slip in and out of each character, my wardrobe “happy place” of persuasion and deceit. Small tattoos, neutral hair color, unpainted nails, my characters are solid, good, approachable, and likeable. My biggest failure is misjudging my crowd and failing to launch. If they don’t like me, they will not fall in love with me. And I will have one less toy to break. Belligerent child screeches and I die again.
Do it better next time—
Try harder—
Bleed for your audience—
Slit your wrists and bow—
Standing ovation—
Scene.
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 9:14 PM UTC
Boy does that boy love me
In a way I’ve never anticipated;
how broken bones sound exciting when they give way for an excuse to call you;
To bother, perhaps a mother or brother would be best to call in times like these; but your voice takes precedence over any words I could ask to hear
Boy does that boy like me;
Provides feedback to each delusion and assures me I may not be better off dead;
That the world has more to give me if I would just open my hand for once
And let myself be swallowed by potential of potential hidden inside me
The wired frame I call home bends at his disposition
And when a creak admits I hope he won’t comment
On how this body he calls golden is far to be guilded;
How these veins are healed now but before they had been;
I bled openly and freely with each part of me
And I miss it
I wouldn’t want him to know that .
Boy does that boy love me in the ways I wish he didn’t
Where I see a jaw, swollen and aching holds calcium daggers that spit venom;
He likes my smile
Where I see hands dented and ruined, twisted and broken;
He sees my cool tattoo
Where I see lungs, aching and heaving, fiending for any oxygen but my own;
He aches to learn the worlds that bellow from them
So I never shut up.
God would I **** to **** myself
But boy does that boy make me live
Apr 5, 2024
Apr 5, 2024 at 8:42 PM UTC
he, the lone teleprompter,
it rings, the voice, still, silent
he calls, always, I answer
our minutes, then forbidden
by all, who grovel, hidden
alas- they won't take my love
serendipity, it drips
rose fingertips, and winter
it arrives, each time, too late
a ballad, perhaps essence
bittersweet recollections
who we were, your bruised children
who we are, long forgotten
intertwined, a shared thought
remember, how we forgot?
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:54 PM UTC
Salivate for boyhood
Satiate the ****** necrotic fantasies I spent 2009 stuck on
Give me waistband of your hips and the dips at which your thighs open wide
The unscathed version of you would be afraid
Be not afraid- boy- moan in pleasure
Let me measure how far my lips can reverberate against the parts of you no ones touched before
Let me be the spirit guide to an apartheid of beads of sweat
Let me take you to a place you’ve never been
I’ll be waiting next time.
Beg for me to get closer
To hurt while I peel away your insecurity until you’re dripping with serendipitous organic ******** ultraviolet shock
I want to see your body melt when I show you this world from which you’ve been deprived
I will be boy- and we will be man- and you’ll be collapsed under tents of silk while I keep going
I won’t stop for you
I know you’re crying from ecstasy- the drug of love
I shot you up. And now I can’t shut you up
We are wet bodies in locker room mirrors
All the fears of judgement are eminent
Not to the domain of their prejudice
But to the fact that
I want to devour you
Every inch of your glistening skin
In the palms of my hand, you’re not ready to begin but believe me, this is something I never want to end
How it smells like lust when I’m around you
And cups of coffee make like lint on days where my bones are rattling against yours
It takes all my strength to test how deeply I can house your body
Competing over every inch and acre that I can run my tongue along
The curves of your chest and collarbone the delicate withdrawn hiss you expel when I melt the stone wall you responsibly upheld
This boyhood
From new innocence it arises and it’s so beautiful to see you fall apart again
**** me, boy, until I see nothing but the future in your eyes.
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:49 PM UTC
I almost cried the second time her thigh grazed mine. The air shared between school girl fantasies of jump rope and freshly baked poppy seed cupcakes. Just enough to make me ponder whether the bounds of earthly consciousness were an object of her manipulation. And I, simply her willing subject.
The oh too warm days on the side of the pool. The bright rays permeating the soft pretty pink promise of youth. Never delineating from the canvas of blue gray green tiger stripes I captured every time I looked up at her.
There were only feelings of nervousness, maybe a little anxiety. The feeling of a canary perched in its open top brass haven of beautiful imprisonment.
That’s what it was like being in love with Eloise.
Protrusions of the finest rose thorns. Strangulation by way of sweet, sweet cyanide. Dropping off the prepossessing coast of Amalfi.
I hoped that she too never stopped touching me, but I knew that a boy would come.
A boy would come to take me gentle Eloise away. To contort her limbs and fantasies of childlike innocence into rough boyhood.
Why should she try to keep up with him?
I was warm. I refuged her hollow bones as one does a migrant sparrow.
But like any kind thing, you must issue release. For the worlds most marvelous of things have no business being kept from displaying their beauty.
The way her feet curved and curled at my unsavory dispositions. The hugging of sandles by way of freckles and blue glitter dolphins.
I knew how I felt.
I knew because I had felt this way before.
Never daunting, or in bad taste. Not shamefully or with unrelenting dissatisfaction.
So how come she couldn’t do the same.
How come I’m left with camera film of beachy Saturday’s and coffee gelato. Of ripe succulent fruit. Her strawberry lip balm. Tire spokes peaking out of the side of mulberry bushes, and the space between our palms when her hands interlaced with mine.
And she’s left with none of me at all.
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:48 PM UTC
I carry the blood of many men
In my village, a stone cross stands on the coast of St Lunaire , an epitaph of men who didn’t made it back home
A chemist aids in the end of the next world war
And he’s smiling, writes a book for his first granddaughter to learn the measures of the worlds excellence
But stops halfway after losing control of half of his body
He now gargles clementines and white wine in a mouth that speaks none
My grandfather sings sea shanties in his office alone, from a tape, and it bellows
Those words are the only time I’ve heard him form a sentence in 5 years
The soul has a funny way of reminding us where we came from
I carry the blood of many men
My father comes to this country seeking redemption for potential potentially lost
And through slurries of slurs and unmarked lost words
Builds an empire of wine and gin and ***
He is alone, but when we dance as a child I can see how his steps are just a lineage strewn from my own
Edith piath and Celine dion course through a heart too heavy for his own good
But he loves all like a baker his bread on Sunday morning
Takes it home and breaks it apart for his daughters and son
The soul has a funny way of reminding us where we came from
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sometimes
On a dimly lit sunday morning
When the dew sets gleefully on wildflower and freshly sprung grass
And the only sound that surrounds me in the faint whistle of a tea kettle, over a lit stove
I am a girl
A girl in the way that pancakes rise over and fall at the suggestion of arrival
And boysenberry jam meets the corner of a mouth
A girl like the bright pink lips that swallow them
A g irl in the way skipping sounds on wet concrete
Primary affairs and linoleum hallways,
Like green braces and familiar places
Beads, wooden and plastic, letters pool on desks and tie friendships together for lifetimes
A girl in the arms of a father
Sometimes I feel like a girl in prepubescent rage
In shouting the lyrics along with the radio
In liking a boy so much that my pride eats me and spits me out
In the way I check under my bed for monsters at night
Sometimes the girl is scared and gazes up at the stars and recants constellations, all by the wrong names, and like clockwork, rises and spins around with open arms in the deep blue
A girl like a rose petal falling on a lost lovers cheek
Like a locker filled with sticky notes
Like magnets on a fridge
And fresh oranges on the kitchenette
Like a bandana wrapped around a pale neck
Like hickies the day before a big test
Like the crackle of a patchouli candle
Like reading past bedtime
Like Jane ******* eyre.
Like teenage angst
And “mother you just don’t get me”
Like Sylvia Plath and a Taylor swift chorus
Like Heart break
First kisses in a cafeteria to a boy named Jeremy
Or Josh
It doesn’t matter what his name is
But it did once
Knives cleave open my shoulder blades and tears stain my face
And the dog in my rib cage rip apart ego
Peels me apart
And plasters me back together again.
I have felt like a girl before
But the parts that make me one pale in comparison to what girlhood feels like
I have been a girl
And the girl is still here
Watching
Waiting
For the last cookie in the cookie jar
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:42 PM UTC
I hope you make good use of the space I leave.
When my things begin to make themselves few and far in between.
When all that remains is a toothbrush, begging, merely to be used, obstructed or seen.
Each wind in its direction and waft an excited suggestion of beckoning,
Like the unrequited object of my emotion that led me to my newly found absence.
Your books will be so lonely without mine to populate the shelves and make dinner party conversations of keats, deleuze, and brönte alike.
Vonnegut excuses himself with Austen not far behind.
And lovers, thieves, and poets find their owners in me once again.
But what are stories of adoration and hope and lust if not shared with that who has your heart ?
A passionless conquest to comprehend the bounds of great literature is a fools game without one to share it with.
What lonely man can claim he knows the bounds of loves measure,
When he lets it escape him?
But then again, you opened the door to the ghosts of our still beating hearts and told the dog to no longer return for scraps.
And when he sits, patiently, for your arrival, or slightest nod to extend a greeting,
You stand at the door. To turn the porch light off.
I wonder, at times, if the dust that collects on your most prized collections of trinkets and toys, is the same dust you invite to settle on those you humbly invite into your life.
She will enter, like a bright, shiny object, and upon your evaluation, be set on a shelf for future use, perhaps, or never to be used again at all.
What good is a new toy that’s been used and placed on a shelf?
Is it for her to mount her porcelain legs to the bookshelf floor and take exit?
Or for you to await her frustrations and break her small white frame onto the wooden floors of your ego.
I often can’t help but wonder which will come first.
I realize now that, I cannot erase each small reminder of my existence because for as long as I can remember, though you often commend my memory, I was in life with you.
Continuously living.
And small pieces of me, and us, and our life began to collect on bookshelves and tv stands, and cooking pans, cubbies, and shelves and bathroom sinks.
I used to love these displays of the interwoven identity of us.
But as you request the removal of all things “me”, I see this may have been a delusion
Of the concurrent and consistent need for me to place myself in every facet of your smile , body, mind, and childhood bedroom.
For the need to be seen.
Today, at your request that I no longer be here, I will begin slowly removing each layer of my love from your life, in an attempt to recosiliate the audacity of my hoping that we would forever and always be interwoven in each other.
I’m sorry, my dearest love, for polluting all of which you care for, with the dust and ghost of who I am.
Next time, I will take notice that just because I am knocking on a door, that I will not always be worthy of having it opened.
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:41 PM UTC
The other day when a good friend asked “what are you looking forward to” I did not have an answer. I realized I hadn’t had an answer to that question since my battle grounds were school rooms and scented pencils wielded at close range. I hadn’t had an answer since I split my last cookie with my best friend, or gleefully accepted an invitation to spend all night on a carpeted floor to wake up to drool on pillows and cinnamon buns made by dad. I don’t remember the last time I had an answer to that question. Not since my imagination was my most prized asset instead of pink pills taken twice a day. With water of course. Not since my fingers typed epics instead of emails. Not yesterday, and definitely not the day before. Though I have more money now than I ever have, I feel poorer than I’ve ever been in a life that pays by the hour and not by the gratification of $10 on book store day. No small thing has chance anymore at making me smile. Life has done a good job at doing away with smiles for grown ups.
Now I smell and I eat whatever Id like and no one is here to tell me to stop making mistakes but I was never ready to hold my own life in the same esteem as anyone prior. I dont know what it takes to stay alive. This is all a pitiful attempt at nurturing animal let go into the wild. The animal bites the hand that feeds but is afraid of the fire. I am but an animal whimpering for someone to hold it. Just once more. I don’t know what Im doing and I fear I won’t, for a long long long, time. I am a grown child who one day was told that smiling was for grown ups do, and I can do it now, but alone. I can do everything I used to, but now just alone. But it turns out I dont want to do anything anymore. Not with myself. Not here. And definitely not forever.
Let me shrink down once more, by grace of time, and feel small again.
I promise it will make me smile.
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 2:39 PM UTC