let’s talk about love, simon
this book that so many hands
have held and worn smooth
places on the cover
pages all creased from
countless readings

this book that became
a movie with witty
posters about coming out
and rainbow emoji hearts
as a way to advertise the
opening of doors upon
the realization that
love, simon is
a dearly needed piece of
media that gives queer
people a happy ending

and sitting in the theater
first with my grandmother
and then with my sister
i cried many times

for myself
for my friends
and for all the queer people
that have not lived to see
a movie like this

i was almost one of those people
because in national studies
40% of transgender adults have reported
attempting suicide
and 92% of those individuals reported
having attempted suicide before
the age of 25

i was almost one of those people
i was almost a statistic
because 5,000 lgbtq youth
take their lives each year
and 500,000 lgbtq youth
attempt suicide

so many movie theaters
could be filled with all these
people that didn’t make it through
who they were to become who they
were meant to be
because the world is a hateful
and hurtful place to those
that are different

but there is always a light
sometimes found in the pages
of a book by an author
that is not queer themselves but
puts the effort into listening to
lgbtq people and making that story
as true to their experiences
without any of the
pandering or queer-baiting
or the ******* fetishization

and i saw that light
when i looked over at my
sister and there were tears
in her eyes and she
grabbed my hand so hard
that it hurt

and i saw that light
when the people sitting
next to us clapped
as the movie ended

and i saw that light
in simon and how
scary and painful being
unsure of how to come out can be
because people will look
at you differently
they always do

but that’s okay because
you’re not doing this for them
you’re doing it for you
you beautiful sunbeam of a person
so lay down your scars and
sharp edges and come sit
next to me and hold
my hand if you want to
if you need to

because we are alive to
see this movie
to finally exhale that breath
because we survived
who we were
to become who
we are meant to be

you ask what is the point
what will this change
what will it do
why are kids walking OUT
when they should be
stepping UP

well
in this instance
you need to step
DOWN

because you are not
a child in 2018
having to seriously ask yourself
if school is even safe to go to
and if your school could be next
if it could be your classroom
your friend
your teacher
you
you
you

as an adult you
need to step DOWN
because this is not an instance
where your voice needs to
be louder than a child's
or a teenagers who just saw
their friends gunned down

because this is the time for
you as an adult to listen
and mean it
don’t just think of a response
or a way to prove that you know better
because if you have not been through it
you have no idea
what it’s like

and you as an adult
have had so many opportunities
to listen for so many years

but in elementary school
when three boys chased me
and pulled off my jacket
and knocked me to the ground
and i went to the recess aid
shaking with fear
and sobbing
she told me it was because the
boys liked me

but in middle school
when there were so many assemblies
about stomping out bullying
where the students signed their
names on a wooden plank painted white
like that would do anything
and even when i was still so afraid
to go to school that i would
have rather died
where were you to listen to me
to protect me

but in high school
when my best friend didn’t
even make it through the first
five months of his freshman year
of high school because he was
so relentlessly bullied
for being gay
where were you

where were you every time
that i was called a ****
a ***
a freak

where were you
why weren’t you stepping UP
for me then
when i needed you
to help me
when i was just a scared kid
that needed to be safe in school

where were you
every time i needed someone
to listen to me
to step UP for me
to tell me the bullying wasn’t my fault
and i wasn’t alone
WHERE WERE YOU

Why are you talking so loud now
making a tidal wave out of
your voices
like stepping UP is more important
than stepping OUT
right now when they are both needed

what gives you the right
to punish a student for
believing
and being right
that their life is more important
than some person’s ability to
buy an assault rifle
and peacefully protesting by
leaving school and not hurting anybody
because if you won’t listen to
the children then
*******
who will

how many children
and teenagers
kindergarten to college
have to ask
am i next
am i next
AM I NEXT
before you finally listen

there are many things that have not killed me,
and yeah, i guess they made me stronger.
but until those scars became strength,
i cut myself on all those sharp edges
of the shattered thing i had become.

and picking up those pieces was
a slow and painful thing that
painted my fingers,
my palms,
in bright cherry red.

i asked myself if it was worth it,
bleeding fingers stuck in my mouth.
just surviving was so exhausting.
how was i ever going to muster
the strength to put myself back
together with duct tape
and safety pins
and so many disappearing purple
glue sticks?

there was a comfort found in this state,
my body found homeostasis in the
barren battlefield of itself.
i told myself i could build a home
among the smoldering remains,
could learn to love the black smoke
that hung over everything i saw.

i told myself so many things
while on hands and knees in
hopes of finding who i once was
in the dirt and discarded memories.

i told myself i could stay there
if i wanted to,
let all those sharp edges slice
me into ribbons thinner than paper
that could be carried away on the
wind to a place that just didn’t hurt
so **** much.

i told myself that giving up
wouldn’t make me weak,
just so very human.
but a stubborn light inside of me
refused to burn out, like the porch light
left on night after night until
you make it back home.

and i clawed my way out of
that wreckage.
and i’ve got the scars to show
for it, the still sleepless nights
and sometimes even worse nightmares.

but so many of those sharp edges
have been rounded down into
shapes that fit together more
often than not, slotted into place
to make something stronger than
what and
who and
how i used to be.

i just had to survive the healing
process first, because the getting
better is what **** near
killed me.

There is a steady drip of blood running down your chin onto the floor, crouched in front of the open fridge like an animal. The single light from inside the big white box illuminates your hunched back, plays over each and every vertebrae that pokes out of the skin. Too thin. Too much. So cold and alone in this kitchen, fistful of raw hamburger meat to keep that snarling beast under wraps. Your lover slumbers in the next room. So afraid of waking them when your skeleton twists into a new shape, this new form replacing the fertile blood that comes each month. Raw meat warmed up by sweaty palms, a sort of DIY choke-chain, holding back the sharp teeth and terrible snarl. Scrabbling claws to go with an empty womb that will remain forever barren. You are okay with this, preferring the purge of smaller animals from a human stomach than losing so much life-blood that your body counters with anemia. Your lover knows about this, sometimes rubs your back through the worst of it, runs gentle fingers through your sweat and dirt clogged hair. It is okay, this new normal, this exchange of one pain for another. An emptiness that will never be filled, and twin scars of puckered pink. Meat to mouth, lips pulling back to allow for sharper, longer teeth. There is a steady drip of blood running down your chin onto the floor, this you will sop up later with sponges and the promise of a warm bed where the person that loves you as a man and as a beast will open their arms and tell you to come back to bed.

this taste is one i know well
the sweet kiss of peach,
swirled pastel pale with cream,
so light on my tongue
pulls me backward in time

with one sip,
everything fades away
and i find myself no longer in
this campus bookstore,
running on too little sleep
and almost too much to do

a blink of sleepy eyes, a deep yawn
and i am basking in the smells
of roasting coffee beans,
rainbow display of donuts,
the warmth of familiarity offered
by this place that has not existed
since i was in middle school

the me now takes a quiet second
to look back at the me then,
just starting to cut my hair short,
hopelessly in love
with this girl,
and angry at the world

a voice calls my name,
the one i gave myself,
and i turn in barely concealed excitement,
having mistaken this voice for that
of the girl who made my heart sing

what greets me, though,
is my mother, and
she beams at me from behind the
counter of this hole in the wall
coffee shop in welches, oregon,
gestures for me to sit
on a bar stool that spins back
and forth with only
minimal protesting creaks

straw scrapes bottom of
plastic cup and a part
of me cries out for
this moment not to end,
being a little kid again,
hands cold from the drink
i am clutching

my mother offers me a refill,
but this coffee shop is already
fading out of reality and back to memory
and i miss it bitterly

i want that coffee shop back,
with the good food and friends and love
i want that girl to hold my hand again,
make everything feel more whole

but my mother still
beams at me when she sees me
standing near the bar
at her work,
and things are alright

Your boots are by the door,
my love. In hopes you will pick them up again.

I think of your feet, so small.
Toes curled up against holey socks, so cold.

We could have been a city of two, my love.
But you lost your passport somewhere along the way.

Sometimes it feels like your boots are
all I have left of you. Worn leather, whispered promises.

You said we would be forever, in the way
that kids believe that so wholly. But forever is a long time, my love.

And I put my boots next to yours, my love.
Tie the laces together like hands holding tight.

I brush the cobwebs off your boots, my love.
Head over heels for ten years, hasn’t quit yet.

Phone buzzes then, your name on the screen.
The text says you’re back, my heart says you’re coming home.

My father once said to me,
“good luck, kid”

there was malice
in his voice,
there were tears
in my eyes

and I didn’t understand
why we were fighting,
but this was a dance
I knew the steps to
like I knew my father’s anger
was a poison that had been
seeped into my very bones

even then,
his anger was the most
consistent thing he ever
gave to me,
and a broken part of me
craved it, because at least
then he was paying attention
to me

and my father,
he never knew how to
be a father,
moving an hours long train
ride away and wondering
why I was afraid to stay
with him, this man
that I hardly knew
and only ever saw
when I looked in the
mirror

and I can’t remember
when my father stopped
being my hero,
when I stopped wanting
to be like him,
when protector became tormenter,
but it’s been long enough
to make me fearful
and resentful of this man,
whose face and mannerisms
I so happen to share

and and and
my father once said to me,
“good luck, kid,”
and I almost said back to him,
“I don’t need good luck,
I just need a father”

but I don’t think that’s
true anymore, and if
there’s one thing my father
taught me,
I should never tell a lie