my mother keeps telling me i need to go to bed earlier, i need to get more sleep, i have bags under my eyes, but she doesn't understand that im not tired, im just in love.
I remember the first time someone explained to me what the word gay meant. We were in middle school Playing on the swing set behind Stoy Elementary "He’s so gay," she said Bitter disgust poured out of her mouth with every syllable I could not think as to why being happy could be such a horrible thing And so I asked My exact words being “Whats so wrong with being happy?” Now both my friends looked at me weird “Don’t you know what gay means?” “Doesn’t it mean to be happy?” “You’re such a little kid, gay does not mean happy. Gay is a boy who likes another boy” I stood there wondering why it mattered so much that a boy liked another boy; why it was such a distasteful thing. And why it meant gay couldn’t still mean happy.
okay my fingertips are glass and i've only used the edges for myself but while i'm tracing your back I am careful to keep from pricking and sometimes when we kiss it feels like we connect and float and glide and you know they say dancers are really sensitive to movement, we know how every adjustment means something every swoop of the head and blink of the eye and every time you touch my spine the dancer in me leaps into meaning, because the way your head tilted is art enough to put to music
your brown eyes are enough to make me fight for you, your childish smile is enough to make me want you, your tender hands are enough to make me only yours, *and i wanna be only yours.
when i hear your delicate words, and read the ones you've also constructed on paper, i want to smash them to bits, because i know then i will find the truth inside the broken pieces