could you be a lighthouse,
my captain?
a welcome and a warning
all in one

or is that too poetic
of a metaphor for you?
more of a flask
passed back and forth

choosing to mistake the warmth
in my cheeks for
naught but the effects of ***

there is a brightness to you,
though and just the same

my blood sings for you
backed by the sighing
of a heavy heart

but there is beauty in that, too
wouldn’t you agree,
oh, captain of mine?

more than anything, though
captain,
there is beauty in you

if there is something
more to love than heartache
well, he has yet to find it

maybe, he thinks
when he looks at you
there could be more
but the breaking of a heart
just seems to sell better
doesn’t it?

if this is a curse
then it’s little more than self-inflicted
and it must be
when there are no flowers winding
vines around ribs, forcing out ****** petals
in place of calling your name

food does not turn to ash in his mouth
and water quenches
while alcohol burns just the same
and he distantly wonders if there
isn’t something burning in him, too

does longing burn?
reaching out for a sea captain
that is tethered to the ocean
just as the bard is tethered
to the metaphor of love

and how the sun looks
when it breaks through
gaps in the leaves
and caresses your sleeping face
like he longs to do

but there is no place here
for touches so vulnerable and kind
the shadows long lashes make
on your stubbled cheeks
is not for him to witness

but, oh, he wishes it was
wants to tuck flowers
free of blood and bone
into your long hair
and maybe even hold your hand

for you see,
the bard is a simple man
easily pleased and open
in the love he gives

practically overflowing
an ocean contained within
the body of a man

and won’t you let him fill
your cup with something other
than *** and the persistent ache
of telling yourself
that you’re better off alone?

..1. .
the fool remakes himself
into a bard

and no one laughs when
he says this out loud
because a crying fool
brings only melancholy and misery

and as for the bard?
well, the bard feels foolish
about so many things

the question still stands
begging for an answer
if loving you
was one of those foolish things

still, the bard would like to think
he understands what falling in love is like
if only from an artistic standpoint
like the poet to the muse

after all, hearts can’t be reasoned with
and this bard has made quite
a career out of being maudlin

welcomes fits of melancholy with open arms
knowing that a good ballad
a misguided declaration of love
is impossible to write without
have a good cry while doing it

2.
and sometimes there is
so much hurt in those tears
that if feels like anger
but the bard does not know
who it is directed at

and does that really matter?
for, while the anger of a poet
runs deeper than blood and bone
the love of a poet is
an infinite thing

maybe not a thing to say aloud
though, what is a bard without
the sweetness of his voice?
fingers tenderly plucking
at his own heartstrings
pulled taut again and again

nothing as poetic as that will
eventually break
even if the bard tries his
damndest to shatter knuckles
against his growing loneliness

because, sometimes, the truth
is saying that you’ve made him
cry and meaning it
when he confesses to missing
being no more than a fool

what does a fool know of love?
of heartbreak
of empty bottles
and emptier promises

the fool knows nothing at all
and the bard would like that back,
so tired of collecting the coins
made from making a broken heart
sound like such a beautiful thing

i will sing of many things
as any good bard must do
bringing so much to life
with only the sound
of my voice

i could sing for you, too
softly, of a man with
daisies braided into
long hair and tucked behind ears

would you take these flowers
that i have picked
even if my hands shake
and their true meaning escapes me?

poor little bard,
i say to myself,
scrubbing tear tracks from pale cheeks
always singing of love
until his voice cracks and breaks
but never truly experiencing it

of course, there’s a certain
poetry in the persistence
of a wound such as this

though, metaphor be ******
it ******* hurts
but there’s no blood to sop up
nothing to bandage or splint

and at the end of the night
i am still left alone
something that feels like
your name on my tongue

and i want to tell you
so many things
like how beautiful you are
like how i’m sorry i let
this infatuation get so far
and grow so large

and i want you to know
that a bard with a broken heart
will yield no coin
but i’ll keep singing for you
anyway

because, my love
the least i can do
is immortalize you

if not in my arms
then through words that will
survive long after i have
returned to the ground
and isn’t that worth something?

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