sweet
little
boy,
who doesn't know
the tears he cries
are
"unmanly"

He could lie,
and say
that the beautiful boy’s
god-forsakenly perfect
curls didn’t make
butterflies
slash
and thrash
in his stomach
every time he threw
that pretty smile
his way,
as every single time
he fumbled to catch it

Waiting
-I seem to be doing lots of that-
I’d swear there’s smoke trapped under my lungs
My gut’s caught on fire
Consumes me
Red hot coal,
Two bags of air ousted
By toxic smoke building up,
Fragrant like tobacco
Wild like wood.
I often dream about
Driving a knife into my stomach
Just a pop and an excess of smoke
filling the room
No blood at all.
I’ll open the windows
Turn off the fire alarm.
I’ll leave the wound open.
A gaping, smoking wound is more dignified
Than screaming in the flames.

one day
it will be easy to breathe
my lungs will inhale flowers
and honey
it will be second nature
like riding a bicycle
like tying a shoe
like swallowing a pill
and i will hold on
tightly and
with shaking hands
until then

If people are like the ocean
Similar to the seven seas
people, of from all unusual places all very hard to please
If you disappoint them
They will leave you on your hands and knees.

But if people are like the ocean,
Moving with the tides
Then why are there lovers, wars and cries
Why are there disagreements, friends and sorrow
Its because people aren’t like the ocean flat and clear
For it’s much to calm
We are more like sea storms, raging at whatever is near.