I refuse to stay silent
I've participated in the day of silence twice now
The first time in 8th grade
We got cards that explained why we weren't speaking
I stayed silent the whole day
And felt quite special about it too
Lunch was a long game of charades
And I thought to myself
"I can't wait for the next day of silence."
And I hardly thought about why I was being silent
To begin with

9th grade I did it again
I brought a whole pack of sticky notes with me
And by the end of the day,
I felt the need to plant a tree
To pay the world back for all the paper wasted
I broke my silence by lunch time
Because my friend needed to tell me
How much she wanted to ask this girl out
And I wanted to ask this boy out
And I went home that night
Hardly thinking about why
I was (mostly) silent that day

April 11th would be my third year
Participating in the Day Of Silence
If I was participating
Which I won't be
Not become I'm homophobic or anything
Oh, no
But I began to think about being silent
And what it accomplished
What does it accomplish?
I realize it's supposed to be symbolic
Of LGBT youth whose voices are forever silenced
Because they decided their life should end
On their own terms
Suicide is a taboo word
A stigmatized topic
I'm not gay, or bi, or trans
But there are nights
When suicide looks easier
But I can't tell anyone I feel like this
Because no one likes discussing ugly things
And we'd rather live with the pretty lies
And it's much easier to fake a smile
Than lose all my friends
So what kind of message are we sending
When we stay silent on subjects like suicide
And students stay silent
Because they don't want to speak in class
And then feel like they're doing the world a favor
Making some political statement
I want to tell the story
Of the girl who got kicked out of her house
For bringing another girl home
I want to share the tragedy
Of the boy, bullet in brain
Because he was born a she
I want to be the voice
Saying "It's okay."
Not censoring my words
Maybe I'm misinterpreting
What the Day Of Silence is all about
But at least I have the power to say
You will never silence me

In my spare time, I put out his fires, and I cut
the bottoms of my feet on broken glass while
traversing across the muggy, jagged scape of his mind.

He calls my name between pulls of cigarettes and the
striking of cheap matches, and it's worth noting that I never liked
my name much until I heard the fires scream it.

I'd stand at his side and watch the flames cause his heart to implode,
and I'd fidget with his *****, shaking fingers while I listened to him
whisper something about 'I love yous'

A man's art is a reflection of self. I take note of this,
while I watch the flames dance and swing in the browns of his eyes
and warm the cavern that, moments before, had been a heart.

Hands have a power,
unlike any other.
They can lend a hand,
Or hold people down.
Spend years to build cities,
Or press the button,
that destroys them.
They can touch and feel,
yet they can also strangle.
Our eyes give us two dimensions,
Hands give us the third.
But the real problem is,
That hands never hold enough hands.
Only because,
we are too busy,
holding them in fists.

Ever told the weeds by the sidewalk of your self-loathe?

I tried to explain the concept of stars
to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom
why we loved what we did.

He held onto his stuffed rabbit and asked
‘what are those lights in the sky’, with wide eyes
and a genuine interest in human nature.

I explained to him that they were stars, and
when he asked what that meant, I said
‘they’re just ***** of gas, light, and hope’

and these vast spheres of gas and light
and hope, govern us. Tyrannize our tiny
existence with their somewhat larger indulgence.

How we worship supernovas and eclipses, how
we wish on things that merely embellish the moon;
that glow. How we loved to watch things, and pretend

that they were of some sort of importance. We could
spend whole nights lying on our backs with lovers
watching still shots of the void. Figments of imagination.

I tried to explain the concept of stars
to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom
why we loved what we did.

And unfortunately, neither could I.