Planning the last date
Similar to planning a funeral
Instead of ordering lilies
I plan on ordering kisses
How many are enough
I know I’ll cry
We can’t stay together
For fear of resentment
I don’t want to use empathy
Like the siren uses her song
Love must be organic
So I grieve
I’ll read Neruda until I get over you
I’ll play Liszt until I move on
But I’m afraid my eyes will tire
And my fingers will bleed

I woke up in a fright.
I don't recall last night.
Was I with my crew?
Maybe it has to do,
with the ******, laying to my right.

My parents grew up in a town
that everyone drove through
but no one could remember the name of
and the trees grew in perfect rows
like city buildings.
It was a  place that had one school with every grade,
one diner that everyone drank coffee at,
and one church that everyone went to
no matter their beliefs.
My parents grew up in a town
where the tombstones outnumbered the people
that hid behind wavy seas of green
where no one can see them
unless you need to place flowers on the mounds
for your own sake.
My parents grew up in a town
where the number one place
for a crime scene
wasn't a dark alley
or ****** bar
but in your own **** living room.
My parents grew up in a town
where tragedy arose like clockwork
yet was always treated as a surprise
solved with
light, feathery words that held
no weight
like a band aid that always
seemed to get ripped off.
And the best way to talk about solutions
was to keep your mouth shut.
Ignorance is the speediest way
to keep your town perfect.
You had to hold on to your own ideas
and choke the others out.
My parents grew up in town
where you could only see the surface
decorated with smiling faces
worn like masks.
and what lies beneath
was only shown to the human eye
when it was too late.

I want to wake up
to the richness of your voice.
A voice that looks like floral petals,
smells like fresh rain,
and sounds like the warmth of a
crackling fire.
Your words are light
yet fill the room
so that it swells like your chest
when you breathe.
And once our eyes
lose their fatigue,
we'd open up our rib cages.
and pass secrets like warm bread
while giggling under the blanket
where no one can see us.
We wouldn't need to go
and look at the night sky
because the Christmas lights
would be the stars
and you would be my moon,
shining in the darkness.
I never want to leave your arms.

Maybe it was the way I told you.
I rolled my sexuality off the tongue
like sweet milk and honey.
Saying it so casually
I might as well have hands stuck
between pockets of worn in grey sweatpants
complimented with a deep v that goes
down to my belly button.
I said it like the spoken version
of a sticky note
written with my best chicken scratch.
I guess I didn't say it with any more girth
because I felt like I didn't have to.
The picture in my head was
like a short silent film from the 1920's
that only needed two cards
to show what we were saying.
The first saying "I'm not straight",
the second saying "Okay."
Okay as in that's totally normal.
Okay as in I'm happy you've found yourself
Okay as in I'm glad you're comfortable with your sexuality.
Okay as in not a celebration or a witch hunt.
I was not expecting what came after.
Telling me that I was just trying to fit in.
That I didn't know myself well enough.
That I'm a liar.
That I can't be attracted to every gender.
That I'm selfish.
That I had to wait for the "right man".
Comments pouring onto me like a cold shower
entering old wounds
that stung with every syllable
and you got mad when I wanted to get out of the bath
Of course I would get upset
with words trying to make me
disregard the day when I found myself
after long nights
of locking myself under bed sheets
feeling confused and not knowing
how to answer questions I'd ask myself in the mirror.
In someways I don't blame you.
You didn't hear the past in my voice.
You didn't hear the storm
only the calm winds.

But it still hurt,
because these bitter words
flowed from the people
who were supposed to love and support me the most.

I didn't feel a rock
in my throat
when I heard the news.
More, the feeling of water
pouring into my lungs
like flower vases.
The stem pushed through my gullet
and orchids bloomed
from my open mouth
and empty eye sockets
so one one could see my sorrows.

Brother,
It's severely strained me to not say sorry
every five seconds because
I cannot answer all of the questions
causing the fog within your skull.
I can't provide these answers
not because I don't want to
or don't know how
it is because I simply cannot.
I'm constantly held at gunpoint
by your elder teachers
who want to keep you polished
in the same state on a shelf
for them to watch.
They don't realize you're constantly
surrounded by kinks in their plan.
Your ears aren't in tune
to hear the evening news.
You haven't learned to digest reality.

You know,
I've always found it odd that
prostitutes practice their profession
in the same places
that kids play pick up sticks
near parents who promise themselves
to protect them
by dressing them up in ignorance.
By lying to their faces
and telling them about the stork
or Santa Claus.
To keep them "pure".
Preserve "innocence".
How does it help to raise your child like a bird.
Keeping them in a wire cage,
to sit on a wooden swing for hours
while they wait for daily meal
and swig of water.
They have wings for a reason.
Calling this "freedom" would be a disgrace.
Let your fowl fly free into the warmth of earth
and explore with guidance
to become new.

Artists do not buy canvases to keep them blank.
Galleries all over the world aren't filled untouched with sheets of white.
Artists buy canvases to create something beautiful.
Let your children become something beautiful.

I was lost in a place I knew
watching familiar faces fade.
Into the void they sank away,
I wonder if mine will follow
for people never stay awhile
always wanting to come and go.
I miss my friends from this dear place
but time and I must go on now
and continue our fiery dance.
Into bleakness I shall explore
to see that I’m no longer lost