She prepares her kit
To turn into someone else
She's done this for years
Not knowing how to be herself

She smears her lips
With a bright bold Mac
Drawing an artificial smile
Hoping she wont crack

She grabs her eyeliner
And traces her eyes
As strokes of mascara
Send lashes toward the sky

She dips herself in powder
And draws two circles for blush
She irons her natural hair
With every bristle and brush

With this new mask on
She could now face the world
Yet I still wonder
Will I ever meet the real side of this girl?

We said
It won't stop
But it's too late
I pressed the brakes
Threw away
Everything we gained
With all at stake
Out the window
No more crying
No more pain
All that we knew
All our beliefs
Tossed em out the trash
For my own relief
Yet I'm the one
Filled with sorrow at night
Rereading the letter
Thought I was making things right
How long will it take
To accept the end?
How will I view us
As just friends?

You have a spark that blazes past my ice cold eyes,
you're the six on a weathered pair of bad decision dice.
You're the smoke in my lungs; my hip's friction's delight,
and you're where I want to be at the end of the night.

So pull me by my the clasps of my black leather coat,
past the bar, to the back, to the room that Aidan keeps aside.
Whisper in my ears, past the roar of alcohol and smoke,
these words that I've longed to hear for some time.

Say:
"You are the cherry on a cigarette; the blade of a knife.
You burn me and turn me to melting when you enter my sight";
I'll say:
"Your lips are my addiction, your *** is my television,
and your eyes are where I want to be at the end of the night."

Then we'll explore love and bad decisions on the table and the floor.
You'll pull me closer, bite my ear, and whisper. "Shut the door."

What would it take to get on that level?
I've done so much.
Been there.
I'd do anything.
And all I want in return is to be thought of,
To be on that level, too.
And to not be taken for granted, ever.

between my mother
and her paper
cup
I’ve heard tell
that even sorrow
has a life.

father yells
at dogs, at the necessary

born, at me
in the mirror
to turn

around
get someone
can clean
this up.  father calls

light
the unspilled
blood
of the god
we're in.  he suffers on his path

the suppressed
amnesia
of faghood.  being gay

has long been
being open
to the possibility
he’s not.