i remember what it
felt like to be
called a liar
that first, and then
second, time

i remember what it
felt like to be 17
and trapped between the
drunken, sweaty bodies
of two older women while
i begged them to stop

i remember what it
felt like to call for help
plead with them that i
was a minor and to
stop touching me
please, stop touching me

i remember what it
felt like to be told
i was making what wasn’t
even my first ****** assault
into something it was not

that i was being dramatic
that i needed to forgive these
two adult women that had
touched me without my permission
without my consent

and i know what it feels like
to ask for help
beg and plead to be heard
and to be so staunchly ignored

having those i thought
i was safe with and around
deny my traumas again
and again

and i couldn’t even let
my ex partner touch me
in so many places
because even thinking
about their gentle hands
being there made my skin
crawl and my eyes water
out of fear

and i know what it feels like
to have my fingers itch
for the blade
exchanging one hurt for another
because, at least,
that’s a bloodshed i can control

and i am so ******* tired
of feeling used up
like part of me is tainted
like something was taken
ragged edges that can’t
be forced back together

and i am begging you
take a tooth
take an eye
just give it back

my ****** autonomy
my safety
my consent

my right to say no and
be listened to, *******

(and i wonder
if i had still been pretending to
be a woman at 17
would i have been listened to?

would that ****** assault
have been less words
and involved so much more
would i be believed?

but, a man can’t be
sexually assaulted, right?
i must have enjoyed it, right?
having two women i thought
i was safe with and around
grinding themselves onto
either side of my body
that was still that of a minor?

i must have wanted it, right?
right?

and the blade in my hand
can only tell me one thing,
that i am still screaming

no, please no
please, you’re hurting me

please stop
please stop
please stop)

bardling, a noun

I. to describe an inexperienced
and thus usually
inferior poet

II. more lover than fighter
preferring a broken heart
over ****** knuckles
but, don’t both burn
just the same?

III. and i can’t carry a tune
hands too unsteady to hold
an instrument with any
kind of confidence
but i could hold you
if only you’d let me

IV. though, what kind of
bard can i really be
if i don’t believe in
the concept of being in love
and the novelty of soulmates
continues to escape me?

V. not your bard
or bardling, rather
though, i could be
if only you’d ask
but it’s selfish of me
to want that, i know

VI. so, my love
and my captain
and my dear, dear friend
i’ll don bright clothes
and remake myself in
to a fool instead

VII. lay down some of this
melancholy at your feet
trying out glass half-empty
in all manners of love

VIII. and maybe i’ll learn how to
carry a tune without
my voice cracking

IX. a way to trick my hands into
no longer shaking
when i hold that instrument close
and coax such pretty sounds from
the strings

X. and, if i’d rather hold you
in place of all those strings
and stained wood
well, no one needs to know

1...
you beat everyone to
the punch
and branded yourself a
freak before you knew what
that word even really meant

but that didn’t matter
because, five days a week
you waited for the bus with
a bouquet of scotch broom
held in one small hand

picked sweetly and tenderly
for the pretty, pretty girl
with her long brown hair
and shine in her eyes
that always saved a seat
just for you

and she always took
those flowers, too
might even let you
hold her hand

and you didn’t know
what it meant
at seven years old
but there were sparks
and butterflies and
you never wanted to
let go

2.
but, kids can be cruel
and you remember the terror
crushing and suffocating
that came on the heels of
realizing you liked this girl

probably more than any
two girls should
have liked each other
you told yourself

trying to hold that part in
that knowledge of liking
someone of the same ***
but not feeling like that
was the right gender
for you, either

and what is a child
supposed to do with that?
how can someone so young
expect themselves to have
the proper vocabulary to
express something so
big and so new?

3.
and you think of that girl
for the first time in 15 years
crying into the knuckles
held firmly in your chipped teeth

like there are enough tears
to wash out the
pain that still lingers from
feeling so wrong and *****
for so many years

and you called yourself
a freak first
but, only to lessen the sting
that came with being called
worse things

like what was different
about you was so much
worse than wanting to
hold hands with a pretty, pretty girl
that saved you a seat
on the bus and would sometimes
let you hold her hand

4.
and you want to ask
what is so wrong with that,
who were you hurting,
being young and in
something akin to love?

and you want to ask
so many things
like how you were supposed to
know you could be gay
when no one ever said so

how were you to know
that a girl could love a girl
and a boy could love a boy
and there is beauty in that?

because, of course there is
there was beauty in your love
for that girl with the
long brown hair and soft smile

there was beauty in your
knowing that if that girl had
asked and smiled at you just so
you would have stolen the
moon from the sky
just for her

5.
and you know so
many things now
and only some of them
hurt enough to bring tears
to your tired eyes

and that’s okay, too
no one can blame you
for mourning over what
could have been
and could have been sooner

if only you had known
that your affection was
not only okay
but a thing to behold
to be proud of

6.
and you have loved
since that girl
sometimes wondering if she
remembers your name

and you have cried, too
out of fear and happiness
and heartbreak
like any good poet
must do

and you have grown
into yourself
into your being as a man

and you’ve got the scars
to prove it
thank you very much

and sometimes, when you
look at him
or her
or them

you are nothing more than
that child again
picking flowers for a pretty girl
because you know they will
make her smile

and that smile will
make your heart
grow wings
every time

there’s a certain poetry to
persistent heartache
don’t you agree, captain?

finding myself more afraid
of the dark than
flames creeping ever closer to
my skin from the torch
i still carry for you

maybe it makes me a fool
but i’d rather be had in
any capacity you can offer
than to abandon ship now

and i know the captain goes
down with the ship

but what is a captain
without his crew,
and what rank would i have
on my own?

still so many question
and no good answers
beyond mumbled apologies

finding myself pulled
between the ocean and the moon
but always ending up
back by your side

and what would
you call that, captain?
loyalty,
foolishness,
love?

maybe love is too tender
leaves no room for
empty bottles of *** and whiskey
lashing rain against blackened sails

there are bite marks in my
knuckles i know you won’t notice
and that’s okay, too
no need to complicate things

maybe we’ll just simplify it
down to saying that what
i crave is adventure
when what i really mean is
you

oh, captain of mine
what i really mean is
you

what poet
and furthermore what bard
worth his salt
isn’t at least
a little bit in love
with his muse?

seems a common affliction
for an artist
a love compounded by inks
and thread and a voice thickened
by tears left un-shed

there is nothing to cry about
though, beyond all the silly ways
i’ve found to break my own heart

wishing i could put the blame
on you but knowing this
metaphorical blood is solely
on my own two shaking hands

and maybe that’s my lot
in this life, at least
sleepless nights on my own
yearning to rest my head on
your shoulder and knowing
that you’ll let me every time

and maybe i wrote you
with softer edges
and a smile just for me
and i broke my own
silly little bardling heart
wide open with no help
from anyone at all

because, my love, while
the truth of the matter is
that i love you
have loved you
as a poet and a bard
to his muse

there has always been
so much more than
these words i put down on
paper, knowing you
will never read them
and i will never offer
to speak them aloud
again

for you never were my love
though, it is bold of
me to call you so
and not just from an artistic
standpoint either
but out of a misguided hope

or something just as silly
like a poet and a bard
falling in love with his muse
and mistaking it for
the real thing

the captain asks if you
think the moon misses him
as much as he misses the moon
and your stomach lurches
but not because of the crashing waves

must you be in competition with
something as great as la luna?
millions of miles away
when you are right here
the captain’s right hand man

is that really fair?
who would you ask
if not the captain
and the moon refuses to answer
while the sea only cries
out your name

there is something besides
the captain that is
begging you to return home

and you wonder if a
wolf loves the moon the
same way you could
love a man

torn between wanting that
coldness of the open ocean
on your skin
and craving the captain’s
mouth on your own

is that a selfish thing,
you want to ask,
willing and wanting to follow
the captain
your captain
across the oceans and the constellations?

so be it, then
you tell yourself
because you will remain
after the *** is gone
and the moon has fled
the night sky

you will remain
tethered to the captain
to your captain
and the promise he carries
of the open ocean
with the open sky above

stinging and salty spray
off the bow of a weather beaten ship
let alone the freezing shock
of ocean waves
has not touched my skin
in six long years

and i am ready, my love
thick ropes of scars
begging to be touched by
the cold of the open ocean

i wonder if all that
clear blue water
hiding so much below the tide
has missed me, too

i am a parched man
laying in the middle of the desert
thinking of her lips on mine
my face in her neck
her sharp sharks teeth leaving
pin-****** in my shoulder blades

and i know i have not loved
a man, nor a woman
like i have loved the sea
knowing that great uncaged
beast runs through my veins
always welcome and wanting

my love, never meant to be tamed
fills a void in me
right below my rib cage
packed with salty kelp and sand
if the infection doesn’t **** me
then the longing surely will

for the sea
she knows what i desire
and it sounds something
like please

something like home
something like you
something like you you you