In the corner of the heart lies a mark, a scar, left not so long ago.
The heart, like the brain, grew around it, functioning as if it never got damaged but there is a shadow that cloaks it.
The heart doubts every touch, every calling, every word.
The incident in which it received it's wound still haunts it to this day, wearing the scar tissue like you do a cloak,
Never again will the heart be the same.

Today I
kissed
you.
I have found the fountain of
youth In your soft lips.
Discovered the gold
Under your tongue.
And explored with hands
To touch the sun's face.
Today I
Kissed
you.

Holding onto the rope
     Rope fibers tear at my skin.
I kick my feet and try to hoist myself
      Fatigue weighs me down.
What lies below is nothing but a dark entity
     Waiting to consume
       My
        Heart.

Where are the grass stains I must obtain on my white t-shirt to establish my wiliness to “get *****”?
Where are the ****** urges I must purge with ******, lewd, and snide jokes of the opposite ***?   Where is the confidence I must amplify with impulsivity so reason is kept captive somewhere, hidden from consciousness?
Where is my preordained disposition in giving commands to ones not fit for a position of authority?
Where is my masculinity?

Where are the words, long in lettering, that captivate not the attention of comprehension but of curiosity amongst others?
Where are the capabilities of manipulating numbers in a way one performs faster than the standard calculating machine?
Where are the messages I must retain once I completed the reading of a book?
Where is my Intellectuality?

Where is my sense of correlation of colors and patterns, of fabrics, of style?
Where is my aversion to the concept of bruising one’s body for rough play tends to direct in that direction?
Where is the decibel of higher vocals?
Where are the strides taken with more movement ‘round the hips?
Where is my homosexuality?

Where is my ability to manage my tongue in that it is capable of switching spoken words to fit them who cannot understand?
Where my culinary skills in creating edible sources of energy that are saturated in spice and colors?
Where is my Latinity?  


Where are my products of raw originality?
Where are my thought provoking notions held together by a commonality: my mind?
Where are my blueprints, harboring designs for the business I have yet to construct?
Where is my Americanity?


Answer:
Snitched into my fabric,
Welded and wrought into my frame,
Liquefied and pressurized
Revised and ratified
Into me.