Kept under your bed is a rope of dried twigs,
Elderflower and lemongrass,
Exudes from the chipping paint.
Go, now;
Away from those who remember you leaning upon the neighbourhood postbox,
Next time, I’ll have younger skin.

Gnosticism is my current question
Rummaging through the fabric of time
Every rip leads me to my childhood bedroom
Empty toy boxes toppled over, uniformly
Newborn cries painted onto this plane

Christian doctrines and hyper-pop
Radical leftists holding onto rosaries
At last, unity? Or performance?
Time, time, time—fleeting as always
Even as I contemplate these green crates
Stacked atop the black ones

i'll love you till you call the cops on me.
-lorde, writer in the dark

note to self
don't ever let someone 'fix' my poems
for i'm afraid they'll take away the emotion
from my handpicked words
words that reflect who i am
it may seem like i'm not open to criticism
but they don't feel the same way i do

my adolescence was meant to be viewed through
orange tones and heavily grained film

“Dear Uncle David, I want to thank you again, and Wallis, for having me at your home in the Bois de Boulogne. It’s a rare thing that fate should allow a former king and a king-in-waiting to meet. To tell the truth, it opened my eyes to a few things. To the nature of kingship… the nature of love… and all the difficulties that go both… I’m sure you know the family would have preferred me not to visit you. Afraid, perhaps, I might recognize myself in you, sympathize with you. Well, let me confess that I do recognize myself in you. Your progressiveness and flair. Your individuality and imagination. What a king you would have made in a kinder world. What a king we were denied. It makes me so sad to see you living in exile, when all you did was take a stand for principle, and love one woman completely. You were cruelly denied your right to reign alongside the woman that you wanted by your side. But I give you my word I will not be denied what you have been denied.  The Crown is not a static thing resting on one head. It is moving. Alive. Divine. The changing face of changing times. And if, God willing, it has been ordained that I should wear it… then I shall do so on my own terms… and hopefully, make you proud.” - Prince Charles

my love for you has no limits
boundless like the ocean
of which its rivers of adoration
flow through me
like electricity

I’ve let my finger nails grow,
A direct consequence of my unconscious burdens;
Does the weatherman know, Whether
the solstice will reign in full glory,
Or do I ponder this with my own leather-tanned skin, and unshaven neck,
If my peeling shoulders will feel the curt embrace of an August rainfall.

Somethings I’m going to keep to myself
Like my secret Instagram crush

Grass strands braided into your blonde hair;
Overtures of a silent sunrise emanate from your pores.
Perhaps this is us? Where—
Heathens roam Victorian streets in
Elegiac fashion.
Rivers and
Streams form at the corners of my eyes now.

In this married life—you and I,
I water the plants while you still slumber.
And when I return, your touch is a warm contrast to the cool linen,
Like hot sand beneath my feet as the water drips down towards my ankles.
In this married life—you and I,
I am pleasantly silent, taking it all in,
That I get to lie against this headboard,
In your old t-shirt and my GA shorts,
Admiring your sun-kissed skin.
Certainly I am disillusioned, but I choose to be.
Because finally, there’s a boy in my bed!
The same twenty-one year old I met in the university courtyard,
Except now he’s preoccupied with stools for our breakfast bar.

Pervasive yet persuasive,
As I inhale the cigarette smoke,
Ready to abandon my principles, I—
“Turn towards the door; party’s over.”
Yellow cabs captured in my sepia/****** lens;

Gritting my teeth, blood rushes to my jaw.
It always happens, and I announce that I’m drunk.
Reassure me; tell me I’m not a nuisance.
Let me hold your hand, please.

The cowboy’s sitar is a warmer, darker beige, which sits atop a birch trunk.
Handsome are his lovers; their skin the colour of his beloved instrument.
Even in despair he has someone in his bed,

Consoling his loneliest fears in platonic holds.
O, the merry days of young love,
Wringing in the newly weds,
Bringing home the bacon.
Only the cowboy thought to forge his own path.
You see,
Seclusion was a scare for the young buck,

Sitting alone under a prejudiced sky.
In love he set out for his calling;
Thinking of whom—and for who—he could make a fine husband.
Alas, amidst these broken records he calls his utopian visions,
Returns he, to his lover atop his birch trunk.

Sometimes I avoid my own reflection;
How ironic for someone so vain?
This disillusioned caricature of me
Lives a life so removed from myself—
Thriving across the pond, In heteronormative fantasies,
Knowing that he too deserves love.
I know I deserve this love too,
But I hide from the mirror.
“To be free is to be handsome.”