Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.

Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.

It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.

Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.

Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and ***** fingers.

So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.

What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.

The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the ***** gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.

No one saw.

Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.

You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.

My heart
And soul
Are sure

But my brain
And my stomach
Tell me otherwise

I've fallen
Not bold enough
To believe it
And too afraid
To call it love

And yet
Somehow I know
Some part of me insists
That I should
Let myself feel
And let myself fall

No longer in hiding
No longer in pain
No longer hating
The way I am
Because he is there
Regardless

Fallen?
Yes.
Surely?
Yes.
Sensible?
Perhaps not

But to hell
With sensibility
Why bother
When you've
Fallen?

WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name :
For when that fatal knot is ty'd,
Which nothing, nothing can divide :
When she the word obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride :
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows :
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take :
But still be govern'd by a nod,
And fear her husband as a God :
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt'rers hate :
Value yourselves, and men despise :
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.

Could you find it in your heart to tell me what I mean to you? I don't care if I'm a molecule or a nervous little stain on your brand new carpet or a skyscraper built in the prime of the city's financial boom. Just let me know, open your mouth, put a pen to paper for me. Graffiti my heart. I've just got to know.
Maybe I'm not strong enough to knock down your wall of insecurities and doubt. But I'm not a wrecking ball. I'm just a boy. A boy with doubts and insecurities and negativity all his own. Bit please... For me, if you can find it in yourself to just do me this favor, I will be forever grateful. Forever content with the fact that you'd offer me this one thing. And if, by any chance, you can, then I can find it in me to make the right time and mend appropriate bridges and search and scour for the ample space where you and I may fit.

Yours,
X

This village of two hundred and fifty six people probably won’t ever be ready for you.
Your secret will haunt the community for as long as it takes them to pretend you don’t exist
At first people may scream and cry
Fathers will load their shotguns and little old ladies will lock their doors
Afraid that you are bold enough to profess your love for another man
But behind the bolted windows and petrified stares
Know that you are not alone
Supporters will come from the most unknown places
Someday we can hope this place will change
But that doesn’t mean you have to wait to be honest with yourself
This place will always be filled with gossip
Where news is spread between hair dryers at the local salon
And political conservatism is ten times bigger then the grocery store
In this small corner of the world, where kind words and friendly greetings are waiting on every street corner you will meet the disgusting face of hatred
But when hatred dies, love will come up from it’s ashes

I'll never forget the way he smelled at the
park that first day in his flannel shirt
with the water dripping from his
hair. While he pushed me on
the swings, a cigarette in his
lips and the rain falling off
of him and onto my face,
he tip
          top
                tapered
across my rib cage
and into my veins.
His fingers felt like
they did the same
most quiet nights.