Do not make me love you,
the smell of your skin on mine in the dark
or the courage of your words

I do not bloom in the spring
nor do I find my feet buried deep in the ocean during the summer

My hands have cracked from last winter's cold
And not even you—a boy with eyes of fire—can warm them

Six minutes into midnight
and you're already fighting for dominance
The sheets aren't as clean and
the breeze whispers the words I can't

The proximity of our chests and
how far you've come is still unmistakably balanced
The soft hiss of your breath still resembles muffled screams—
noises beneath the stillness of your lungs

Six minutes into midnight
and there are untouched mountains outside our window.

I'm telling you, boy;
do not mistake my bruises
for beauty.

Do not tell me that you're a man
for taking the crooked path that led you to a wounded soul searching for salt.

I am not a hero for you to admire.
I am not a victim for you to save.
I am not searching for a rope or a blade or a pill.

And your eyes are curious but that is all they are.

Here you are,
with cold feet and
fingertips pressed tight
against cracked skin—
an archaic mantle for a budding soul

Beautiful is not what I call it,
the frost in your eyes—
black tongues underneath
layers of blue flames

It is vicious and delicate,
electric and fickle—
the flavor of rain
on the moisture of your lips
and the trace of summer
along the curve of your neck

Beautiful is not what I call it,
for there is no word to capture
the ease in the pain
and the ecstasy in the anger
when the sun and moon rise
in the same sky

He's never been one
to collect snowflakes
with his tongue—
says that they melt anyway

And yet, he's always been one
to fold his hands
inside a radiant flame—
says that he'll burn out anyway

When I was five,

things went by fast

like the cursory glances I took

at the buildings and houses outside the window of an expeditious vehicle

And candles were left burning

in and out of the dark

When I was eleven,

things sped up a little more

and I was no longer looking at the world outside my window

but at the small droplets of water impatiently rolling down the sleek glass

And mirrors were objects that I held in my hand,
and stood in front of that contained another world – another me

Now that I’m marked with time

and the depth of the ocean is imprinted right across my heart,

my window is archaic and irrelevant, consumed in dust and moist

For my eyes do not see through them anymore

I am standing outside of it

And the candles are blown out

even in the dark confines of my bathroom

Because the mirrors are not another world, not another me

but a reminder of the battles I failed to overcome,

a reflection of a body that I must look away from,

a question that painfully burned itself into my mind