If each poem
Is a window to the soul
Reading my old words
Makes me wonder if the man if I’m seeing
Will ever be whole
There was a year, once
Where the sight of your curls
Softened my heart,
Brought a smile to my face
And convinced me that I did like girls
But it’s been so long
That the ink on the page faded
I can’t separate
Your hair on my shoulder
From the love that you degraded
I wish I could
Remember you fondly
In some other life
The sun that morning
Makes the thought of you godly
A year has come and gone
Yet still, I see your missed calls
Don’t you know
That even just your name
Makes me wonder how I loved you at all
Because you didn’t
I hold that younger version of myself tight
I’ll tell him that it's all good and well
That he does not know
If he will make it through the night
I’ll whisper in a language
You never cared enough to learn
The deep, monotone pitch
Of my homeland
Where I can never return
So whenever I stumble upon
A few old poems of mine
I’ll cradle each word carefully
For the sake of a young boy
Who insisted he was just fine
But confuse not
My gentleness for sympathy
At you
I bite my thumb
For heartlessness deserves no dignity
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 9:21 PM UTC
If each poem
Is a window to the soul
Reading my old words
Makes me wonder if the man if I’m seeing
Will ever be whole
There was a year, once
Where the sight of your curls
Softened my heart,
Brought a smile to my face
And convinced me that I did like girls
But it’s been so long
That the ink on the page faded
I can’t separate
Your hair on my shoulder
From the love that you degraded
I wish I could
Remember you fondly
In some other life
The sun that morning
Makes the thought of you godly
A year has come and gone
Yet still, I see your missed calls
Don’t you know
That even just your name
Makes me wonder how I loved you at all
Because you didn’t
I hold that younger version of myself tight
I’ll tell him that it's all good and well
That he does not know
If he will make it through the night
I’ll whisper in a language
You never cared enough to learn
The deep, monotone pitch
Of my homeland
Where I can never return
So whenever I stumble upon
A few old poems of mine
I’ll cradle each word carefully
For the sake of a young boy
Who insisted he was just fine
But confuse not
My gentleness for sympathy
At you
I bite my thumb
For heartlessness deserves no dignity
I hate how years later, I am still consumed by so much anger.
