This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet there are people stuck in closets because the monsters are on the other side and the darkness has become too comforting at this point. The face of death has become too beautiful to want to turn away. We are hidden, dancing around the idea of being hung as perfectly as that shirt that was “too gay”. We are wondering how to propose to the Grim Reaper because at this point, he is the only man who can “make us straight”, at least in my case. Others would give him a blow in exchange for their soul. The asexuals, though, are finding the words to ask death out on a coffee date. We’re all just thinking and wishing. We’re rolling out our blueprints and studying the structure of surviving instead of accepting that we’re different and actually living. The pride that used to live in us died a long time ago. Maybe around the same time we were in the closets writing our suicide notes. For me it was the day my mother said the idea of me having lesbian friends gave her headaches. Let me not even get into how high her blood pressure would rise if I told her she had a pansexual daughter. “Had”. Now I am but a corpse living among the resurrected by Christ and I constantly ask myself when God is going to baptize me. I ask myself when I am going to stop looking like a zombie from the Walking Dead because, ******* it, I never learned the script or signed up for any of this. I never even wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to sing the songs of my love for her and let the paparazzi spread rumors of how I cheated because I’m that ******* hot. Mother, I wanted to be a singer, but you ripped my tonsils out and told me to smile for the camera and look pretty. But mother, have you ever thought of something? What if she’s the only one I want to look pretty for?

Tears mark my heart
I bare this cross
I took the scars
Blood paid the cost
And all I see before me
Is plains of death
Stone statue families

I’m coming home
I dug the earth
I marked the ground
I heard the bodies
Make no sound
And all I am
Is all they were
I’m coming home
To sleep no more

Hands turn to fists
I have no will
To wish for this
My body breaks
Like the last glass dish
I lay my head down
One more time
After I jot down
My last rhyme

No cloud to carry
No one left to bury
No need to hurry
No need to worry
I’m coming home
One last time

I've made a point of making the difference
between being in love with someone
and loving them.
Being in love is eating strawberry ice-cream
or holding hands on a walk in the park.
It is the smell of summer,
it is the touch of the sea breeze,
it is waking up from a sweet dream.
But loving,
loving is rainy days spent in between bed sheets,
is it the immaculate silence
you can only share with a heart that beats to the same rhythm as yours,
it is the sound of thunder.
So when you tell me you love me,
I almost want to believe it,
but I look into your eyes and understand
you have no idea what you're talking about.
You're confusing it with fascination, darling,
you're confusing it with curiosity.
You're taking the street lights for stars.
You're taking the depth of the ocean
for familiar territory.
Your desire to figure me out,
to put me together like a puzzle
and the moonlight we shared
had nothing to do with love.

Let's be the best kind of maybe.

sometimes i think
that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

in the ugly, unafraid, truth-telling part of my mind,
the part i seldom dare to visit,
i know this is not true,
know that you could never love me,
not now.

i can make myself,
as much as i like,
into wood to be whittled,
but i cannot make you crave those carvings.

you can lead a horse to water,
or whatever it is that they say.

but i fear i will always be a well run dry in your eyes
(or perhaps one that never had water to begin with).

so i combat this fear in the only way i know how:
by turning away from it,
pretending it does not exist.

by shrinking.

and sometimes,
sometimes,
when you don't seem as far away,
i think that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

(a.m.)

Sometimes we lost the poet inside us
Because we found ourselves
Dwelling in a place
That has a heartbeat and hazel eyes
Which happen to be
A mere illusion
Because you wont end up together
And when youre hurt
You found yourself being a poet again
Because poetry is your home
And not a person.

This is the place where you left me.
That night was the worst.
The sky was gray, stars are no where.
I was hurt. I was wrecked.

Never thought I would come back here.
For so long, I thought you have my heart with you when you left.
The truth is, I just left it here where our memories live.
Now I want to take it back to me.