I could see the pain in
my mother’s eyes, the
trickling tears rolling
down her cheeks, as she
stared at my shadowy face,
damaged diction floating
on ice, chilled chemistry
cracking in meaningless
mazes, smashed equations,
wrecked waves swooshing
off into diverging directions.
She was devastated and couldn’t
seem to understand why I had
chosen to live my life as a
homosexual guy.  To live
in the darkened dungeons
and never see the light,
to escape into the endless
nights surrounded by flowery
seas and sparkling breezes,
seeping inside intoxicating flesh,
brilliant bones of blossoming
bridges, flaming passion far
from the unknown.  She couldn’t
digest the thought of another
guy kissing me, climbing on
top of my body, touching me
in secret places beyond boundless
borders.  How could I make her
see that being a gay teen was not
the end of the world, to see that
I was still the same young boy
holding her hands when I was
a child, a smart and intelligent
superstar strolling in society
with spectacular style and great
artistic creations, seamless flight,
channeling crowned nouns
into crystal-clear vowels, captivating
conjunctions, gerunds glowing
bolder blue in the nighttime horizon.
I was alive at this moment in time,
aware of my emotions and the
glorious oceans flowing through
my beating heart, the sweet
scent of ruby red roses growing
in gardens – so smooth to the touch,
so exquisite and full of dreams.  
Still, she was waiting in the dark
for her little boy to rise out of the
flames and return back home fully
changed, to listen to the rhythm of
tall trees and leaves, how when
the rushing winds stream throughout
the landscape, there was a familiar
voice trying to warn me that this
wasn’t the life I was meant to live.