we keep the house cold
so that we can trace life
out of the puffs of clouds
that hum from our lips.
as he skates off the bed
feet nibbling
at the floor boards,
arms drizzling
past his waist,
he sits on the edge of the air
changing what filters into my lungs
with each yawn that stretches from him-
his pale back angled to my face, I
stretch my legs towards him,
resting my feet on his back,
toes tucking into the brails
of his spine,
and we wait within
the beauty of those ripe days,
when everything fell
on our swollen eyelids.

i
have felt more honest touches
from straight boys
honestly telling me
i am honestly worth nothing
they treat me like a ***** magazine
they get so much pleasure
from tearing open my spine
i am a centre-fold
of ****** lips & bruised eyes
there's only so much
my staples can take
how can i feel safe,
when bricks don't build homes
but instead fly towards me
with labels like "******"
from the mouths of boys
who don't have the *****
to put on a ball gown
and throw their stilettos
at homophobic policemen
on hot summer nights
you wanna talk about fights?
i know what it's like
to french kiss
your "oh-so-british" fist
so don't talk to me
about equality
until i don't have to walk the streets at night
with my keys between my fingers
expecting the worst,
always.

i think my heart
grew strings
trying to forget you.

i think people die because they're all used up. whether they're 18 or 80, something inside them has run out of fuel. something inside them wants to be loved, or idolized, or immortalized or whatever they're after and they've run out of whatever makes it happen. so they die or they **** themselves and they fulfill their greatest desire; to be lost, to be mourned, and to escape the void they've been digging themselves out of their entire lives. six feet under.

If I am still what I eat
then today I want to
have hot air balloons
for breakfast and silly
string for lunch, star-
shaped tissue paper
and the center of
Ryan's heart. I only
want to be something
that is worthwhile.