All I know is that I don't cry anymore.
It still hurts my heart but I can ignore.

I once knew what sunshine was,
I now know what sunshine is.

The heart always wants
what the heart can't forgive.

And that is kind of
the beauty of it.

Once you know when to cross a line,
when to put on your boots
when to finally resign.

All else seems to make sense,
but that doesn't mean
you've fully
put up the fence.

Of boundaries,
of withdrawal.

You will never have it all.

You can miss her,
and miss her well.

But that will not do you well.

Because that wont change the past,
the memories relapsed.

When I was a child, I developed slower than the other girls.

I noticed this and it bothered me.

It was simple things,
like lying about when my period came.

And on my first day of high school
I wore two bras
to compensate for... something.

It wasn't until the second day of high school I realized my uniform shirt was transparent...

That was the closest I had ever been to "stuffing".

Once when I was on a school trip, I had another girl chase me trying to read the size of my bra.

I get it they're small.

I told my mother that I wanted a **** job.
I must have been like 12.

She laughed and told me to ask her again when I was 18,
and to write it down in my diary so we could both look back and share a laugh.

I mean I guess she was right.

They ballooned into 3 times their size, maybe more?
And over the past year they have been here
almost taking over.

And now I find myself in the funny position of wanting to hide them.

Not hide,
but

stow away for later.

When I am out and about I would much prefer to have a flatter figure.

My chest that is.  

Which makes a complete opposite of how I felt growing up, longing for large balloons to make me pretty.

I tried binding for my first time tonight.
But I couldn't breathe very well.
And it wasn't flat enough.

She smelled like roses.

No,

something better than that.

I was in love with this girl for a while.

Pining, crying,

the usual.

She was so out of reach and then,

I don't know how but
I got the chance of a life time.

It started with knees.
After an episode or two of orange is the new black.

I realized I couldn't live without trying.

So I touched my knee to hers.

And then....

She was in my bed. And she smelt amazing.

I put my nose between the bra of the girl I had been in love with for most of highschool.

It was

mind blowing.

She smelt like roses,

or,

what you imagine the sweetest smell to be.

I've never smelt anything quite like that.

She smelled like happiness.

I remember putting my face between her *******,
over and on top of,

Just taking it in.

Sometimes I think about whether or not I'm really a lesbian,

and then I remember her.

So thanks, I guess...

You fragile tease.

Also known as,

My first love.

The though of you tastes like ***** in my throat.

I have been dreaming a lot lately.

I see you, innocent and simple, before you realized what you compromised.

I wonder if I will ever be free.

Free from my memories.

When I think of them I get sick.

That's why I taste *****.

***** at the back of my throat.

I choke.

I remember.

Happiness,

Is but an elixir.

Yet to be brewed, yet to be even thought about.

It can be so hard,

so **** hard.

And yet, for some reason we push through.

Do you ever stop and wonder, why all that is exits.

Why are we here and what is the purpose?

I hate that I hate the past.

And I hate that I can't see the future.

I hate stupid privileged kids who never have to worry about their outcome.

And I hate that I have succumbed to the sadness.

The realness, the pain.

I no longer enjoy the smell of the rain.

Everything is numb and I am dull.

Please, oh please let me get over this lull.

Life has this way of ******* you over.

People die, and people grow older.

Can I please regain my sense of sanity.

That child hood fantasy.

Something,

Anything.

There is a pigeon at my doorstep.

Right outside,
on
the balcony.

I am writing a novel about pigeons.

So I approach.

My girlfriend tells me not to.

My fiancee not my girlfriend.

But I do anyway.

I come almost beak to beak but he fled.

Angry with me.

He is back tonight,

with a girl under his wing.

They have lost their home, maybe children

Or maybe she is about to lay eggs,
pregnant.

In the animal world, they bare babies and that is life.

But in this human world we have a choice.

Or at least,

we should.

I don't often get Political.

But the world is burning.

**** whoever let bills pass that **** woman over a fetus.

Watch them make gays illegal again because

I am

*******,

and bleeding out,

all my "children".

When you realize you are actually pulling off your own skin.

When your teeth fall out.

One by one.

Teeth from gum.

Nightmares can mix into daydreams at any time.

Without a reason, without a rhyme.

My fingers are covered in glue,
I don't know what  to do.

I can live with it, or peel my skin off.

I'm not sure which is worse.

Bleeding to death or forever living with this.

When timelines emerge, danger occurs.

You can't pick a scab and pretend the wound was never there.

I think what scares me the most is being forgotten.

But forgotten by her.

If she were to one day wake up and not recognize me,

I don't know if I would be able to go on.

This will be the last thing I write about her.

The last poem that I put my head
into.

Because the storm is over,
I have gotten through the worst.

And now it is time to put a line through her.

Cross her off.

It's over.

I no longer see her in everyone I meet,
I no longer look for her in everyone new.

It's over.

I put a line in it.

A line through her face, she was just a phase.

Whatever.

to still love the first love of my life.

Let me start by saying that I am a girl.

Who loves girls.

A lesbian.

So you say.

Am I allowed to feel sad about the
first girl
I ever loved.

Am I allowed to be mad that the first girl who ever loved me transitioned and became a man who only wanted to see me suffer unless he could make it better.

Wow.

The last few days have been weird.

I love one girl.

Her name is Vanessa

I used to have writers block but I broke up with it.

Now I listen to sad music and upchuck ****.

I don't know where I am going or what I am saying.

But hello.

Beaches and windows.

I have never felt the sadness Mount Eerie has.

Aching bones and unsaid prose.

I was ***** last year.

He was a friend but in the end, he betrayed me.

I'm not nearly as broken as I could be.

This is kind of weird.

What is the intention.

Of all that background noise and memories of boys?

When I was young I though I had to date men.

So I did.  

I mean sort of.

I had a new boyfriend every few months and I am sure as hell not proud of that.

It made me hate myself.

I had a crush on my eight grade french teacher.

To the point that I called her by her name and flirted with her.

When I told my mom that for the first time the other day,

she asked me why I didn't just come out sooner.

I mean...

If only she knew.

What I had to go through,

to be here now.

We're getting older.
Like the loons call from the lake.
A sense of sadness.

You see fireworks once
you see fire works a hundred times.

But I still whip around to face my window,
when I hear them.

Coming with passing seasons,
for different reasons.

What was the reason?

Some sort of holiday.

But it makes me wonder,
what exactly
people are celebrating for.

Do they even know?

I think it might just be an excuse for humans to do something that makes them feel happy.

Why is it so hard for the flower to bloom.

Why does she have to beg for room.

She has already spread her roots, and is fertile with happiness.

How do the weeds not see that?

The weeds, they come. And they disguise themselves.

The appear to be a fellow flower, they are polite, they are safe.

But then when the flowers guard has gone down,

the fellow flower strikes.

Not a **** but a poison.

Leaving the flower trapped.

Shedding a few layers,

to just be left alone.

And then Autumn comes and the flower droops with sorrow.

She looks like a bad idea I'd like to try for one night.

She looks a danger,
she looks a delight.

Dark bar, long legs, open notebook.

I should have seen
what you were doing.

I'm guessing you wanted
me to kiss you.

I would have let you touch my hair,
but you were calling him
daddy.

Maybe we will cross paths again.

Or maybe not, sadly.

Or you might inspire the best
lesbian romance.

Or maybe,

you were just a chance
encounter.

Your move,
artist with sad eyes.

Your move,
towards me, towards sunrise.

Your move,

mystery girl.

I always feel cold when
I watch it snow.

Outside windows,

white sheets sleet like linen sheets.

Textile worshipping cults praise Satin.

Maybe we're all better off believing in something,

getting down on our knees,
and phalic objects.

Because in the end
none of us really know
why we are here?

But does there have to be a reason

Can't it be enough to watch the seasons.

To fall in and out of love,

to have feelings.

She loved a skeleton

flesh and bone, bone and flesh

she liked a skeletal version of me

with no hair.

But I loved her.

I loved her hair up and glasses on.

I tried to wear the earings she gave me

but they burn.

I probably should have known
that something was
wrong.

But I didn't see it.

I was in the eleventh grade, in love with a girl who would never be mine, and figuring **** out.

There was this teacher.

I have no idea what subject he taught I just know I was in his class.

In that class with one of my best friends.

I remember telling her I was gay in that class.

Regardless,

I am pretty sure the teacher had a
thing
for me.

He was one of those,

what do you call it...

"eccentric" teachers.

He was all indie
and didn't give a **** about
what was in.

Including the teeny boppers
who smoked and cussed.

But, he liked me.

And my nonchalant attitude towards school as well as my taste in music.  

I let things happen.

Nothing, too weird.

Just the fact that I folded an origami swan and he kept it all year,
or
the fact that I left his class one day singing Crimson and Clover,
and I came back to a note on my desk from him saying
"Over and Over..."
with clovers drawn on each corner.

Yeah that should have been my first sign.

Later on I'm on "the bench" with the girl I loved, and what does he do but shove his way in between us, and put an arm around us both.

We exchanged panicked glances before this teacher took his chances and
called out to another teacher saying,
and I quote...

"Look! I'm in a chick sandwich!"

And of course, the other teacher nearly gagged before bolting into the principals office.

He didn't speak to me for the rest of the year.

It was only when I graduating and picking up my repot card that I sought him out to say goodbye.

I found him in the tech lab drinking whiskey.

I saw the bottle.

I saw the LCBO bag.

He was drinking and he took one last drag up my body.

What would have happened if I had been even more stupid?
More vulnerable?

In the year book as a joke I listed my secret crush as him.

I thought it was funny.

It was certainly not.

And never will be.

I love how nothing changed.

Oop, and then it did.

You're too young for this.

Stop.

Why can't I tell you not to do how I used too.

I had you and then I didn't.

I swear I did my best.

I wish I could protect you forever.

From what?

From men.

I don't want you to get hurt.

You are very smart and I trust you but,

It won't be long.

Stay strong.

Punk rebel daughter.

Am I a trick writer?

One of those writers who doesn't make sense.

I call myself a writer through agony,

but am I?

I try to be but I don't try hard enough.

I need to be the kind who finds sunshine and unleashes a dragon of words.

So far all I can do is check the spelling and punc

tuation.

It feels like nothing,

nothing.

Incredible.

I don't know.

The demon is gone, but I still have to medicate.

The girl is forgotten,

but sometimes I still remember.

But it's okay.

It's like sweet honey on a summer day,

It's like warm hot chocolate on a winter night.

It is spelling everything right.

Do not worry, do not frown.

Because the dead are always around.

Just don't make a sound.

It's okay.

It's okay.

Breathe.

And listen.

Like a river,
time can flow.

It can be stagnant.  

Mid morning nightmares for breakfast.

Some bad coffee,
from some bad place.

I face the day
like I face
my reflection.

Hesitantly,  
with teeth barring.

Lips curled,
into a suggestive
smile.

Stagnent,

like a swamp.

Of some forgotten tomorrow, over

yonder.

At least I remember the sweet song of the mourning dove.

the

Morning,

Dove.

Imagine where you would be,
if you were on your own.

Would you be dead?

The people in your life is what kept you together.

If may say so.

And you should say so too.

You would not be who you are, if it's weren't for somebody.

Because love, is a sweet thing.

Love does what it wants to do.

Love, is the way I feel for you.

We're family.

If I was stressed out before I am more so now.
The world is ending and I don't know how

to go on.

To leave behind familiar faces and places.

I am finally at peace.

Or am I.

I miss the days of not knowing. Of not growing.

I miss the days of being a complete fool in school.

Why do I feel so much dumber than then,
with way less friends.

I want to fill my brain with knowledge.

Yesterday I went into a store
where they were burning incense.

And, in an instance
I recognized the smell.

Sweet, sweet nostalgia filled my nostrils as I remembered
riding my bike so many summers ago,
down a road that at the time felt like I was riding
into a different plain
of existence.

It was quiet and the streets were paved with concrete
as opposed to the ashy asphalt that covered the rest
of the small town
I grew up in.

Something about the way the neighbourhood was lined with colorful bungalows and huge trees
where the wind danced and sang
as I peddled past.

I once longed to live in a place like that.

Kisses after dark.

Her mother was away.
But her Dad was awake.

He didn't care, he liked me. I like him.

But the rest of that family considered him a sinner.

For what I don't know.

But I was in love with his daughter.

And he knew that and didn't care.

He let us kiss until midnight. He let us kiss until we were out of breath.

The night I spent the night he gave me the slight and didn't say a word.

I was hungry but her arms were on me and when 6am came she draped a blanket over me but I knew I had to leave.

I only tell this story so you're not alone.

She hurt me. And it hurst me to tell this story.

She snuck me out before her father could see me. I skated home and took selfies. I was so happy.

But then she told her mom, and she made sure I would be gone.

I am convinced had Hannah's mother not gotten envolved Hannah would have broke my heart in a different way.

Time passed, drama class.

I didn't know who I was or what I was.

But I was in class.

The only friend I knew was one who I wasn't fond of but I latched on anyways.

And then, someone else. A stranger. I had never seen her before.

Although we had gone to the same high school for the past 2 years.

We were told to get into groups of three, and I spotted her, coming over to me and at the time I was mad.

Like who is this random person invading my space.

I reluctantly let her join our group.

But boy was I duped.

That was the first time I saw the first love of my life.

The first knife in my back.

The first girl I look back,
upon.

It's all fine now, and everything is well and good,

But back then, it seemed like all I could do was grieve.

And misbelieve.

And be lead on.

Had that drama class not happened, had we not had the same lunch period for two years to come.

Would she still have ended up in my bed? In my head?

I miss driving with you.

Cruising down summer roads,
any roads
music up.

You ask me to
play you music that
I used to play when driving.

But I can't remember
any of those songs.

I miss the feeling,
the feeling of the steering wheel
beneath my wrists.

Miss the sounds and smells
Miss the feeling of being carefree.

We need a car of our own.
So I can drive you around
again.

My drivers license is sitting unused
after years of abuse.

I want to be your driver,
be your chariot.

There was something so sweet
about the in between moments.

Something I thought only I noticed.

But she noticed too.
In her minds eye.

She sees me see her,
hand on thigh.

I just want to drive her again.
I want to buy her a Mercedes Benz.

Just to chase those moments.

The ones in between.

Between home and destination.
Between heart and palpation.

You, frequent writer frequent soul.
******* lover ******* roll.

Gentle as the night touches you,
memories upon memories.

The fragmentations of reality and dreamscape blend.

How do I mend.

What was once scratches on paper, becomes public.

What was once teenage hood infatuation becomes stoic.

There are moments I forget who I am,

and then I remember.

I used to write better poetry.

** took that from me when she took my heart.

I've been hurt before, spread like a rash, but I'm fine. I still think about that clown but at least for now I can forget that face and move on ****** race like a samurai.

Don't **** with me because I can see right through you and I knew you and you knew me but at this moment it all boils down to what happened.

On that faithful day, ay. What the **** this dates back to 1955.

I don't know, I don't know.

But I do know you oppose things like abortion and gay relations.

In this day and age you gotta go.

So please kindly **** of please disappear.

Lets go back to when you weren't here.

Let's go back to the whispers in my ear.

I had you then I didn't.

Would you rat out the stoners at plinko to this day?

I chase my meds with alcohol.

She wants me to stop but I wont.

I feel as if I was the one to stop at the strange river and gulp down the water.

In place of the character in the novel I am reading.

I feel connected and yet disconnected from this reality.

As if I were born again.

I have no memories of that past self anymore.

Excuse me while I take a moment to,

to get back into what I used to want to do.

I'm trying to push back the block that is writers block.

And I know this poem *****.

And the reason I'm writing it is to keep myself writing.

These are all just words on a page, a page I used to get no audience out of.

I used to write to myself in secret.

But now that things are getting slightly more public,

I feel like I can't be as open and honest as I once was.

I don't know.

I just want to keep writing.

And writing.

That's all I want to do.

I Still have flashbacks to all of the boomers who told us we would never succeed.

That we would quit.

That we would be a starving artist.

And I mean,

they were right and wrong all at once.

We are all still writing Mr. P.

Or whatever your name was...

Banana Ninja man.

I remember the first time I made you laugh.

I was trying not to say the word "like"

But I like couldn't do it.

You laughed so hard so hard you snorted.

I used to walk home in the wrong direction just to be with you,

I remember the time you yelled at kids throwing **** into the ravine.

I wonder if you ever considered the fact that I was in love with you.

Well, sure you did.

But you chose no.

It's not like I can hide under the toadstool.

I never became cool, became hip.

But I'm nothing like my replacement.

Changing jobs, changing guys.

Changing who I can rely
on.

Today was weird.
Today was out of body.

Out of mind
out of spirit.

Am I a little daddies girl for **

Or am I
the one you can
find on

google.

The answer is neither.

See you later.
See you never.

They told me my work would be burnt to the crisp.

And yet here it is on the internet.

I like to look at life in perspective.

I'm not getting old I just feel old.

I grew up in a time period where hopscotch became snake became snake became Ipods.

Hands became tripods became selfie sticks.

I am young and I am old.
It all depends on who you ask.

For now I would just like to bask in the youth I still have.

Because bet your *** in a few years from now I'll be looking back on tonight in spite at how much time I once had.

Between the glisten of tinsel,
the weight of the stocking.

Someone is crying,
and someone is knocking.

Mixed in with the raisins,
the cookies,
the milk.

One dressed in flannel
the other in silk.

Dressed in textiles and six feet under.

One
In the dirt.
And
One
Under the covers.

Tonight one child goes to sleep with hope.

And elsewhere a mother is trying to cope.

One is young, so fresh and alive.

One is grieving the death of their child.

So hug your loved ones close tonight.

Because somewhere,
someone
does not have
that right.

I feel as though I am cursed.

Because,

I see her everywhere.

On the streets, on the train, at home.

I am always looking for her.

Hoping to one day run in to her one more time.

I know the chances of this are slim but I still like to dream.

...

More disturbingly I still seem to see her everywhere I look.

It's as if, she had fixed, to have a dozen look-a-likes roam the streets.

I know this isn't the case...

I just think that I see her everywhere I go.

And one tiny part of me is hoping that one day,

I will see her for real.

What I would say?

Who knows.

For me,

it happened twice.

Once when she asked me to tell her something,
or to tell her
anything.

So I told her I loved her,
and I wanted her,
to be mine.

And her eyes widened.
She got scared, was
unprepared.

The saddest thing she ever told me, was that she could not be with me.

Until she was.

Again, and again.

She kissed me, she held me.

Until she said don't talk to me ever again.

That was the most heart breaking moment,
of
my life.

The depths of the pool,
A silence unlike others.
Strange faint echoing.
Feeling limitless, weightless.
Savoring, then ascending.

Like a drop of sun,
on my tongue.

Change blisters like
scorching summers.

Different seasons,
different lovers.

Missing our kin,
missing our mothers.

Under the weather,
under the covers.

Sleet black tears,
****** sheets,
ringing ears.

But we've gotten over
our biggest fears.

I see you silent raver,
quaint in the night.

I hear you secret lover,
out of mind out of sight.

Bathe in darkness, reign in light.

//

I am no longer among the fallen.

A woman came in
and read me like a book.

Taking in each piece
of ink,
of scar,
of flesh,

that is stained.

She read me like a sapphic poem,
dissecting the inner meaning of;

each line,
each dollop,
each stroke.

She looked at me as if I were sheet music,

Deciphering
the vibrato,
the crescendos.

I bask in this newfound admiration.

Allowing her to peer into my soul,
and make sense of the marks
on my skin.

Once we went to the mini houses.

All of the doors were small.

Once we met up at the end of a trail, and there was a bridge that we sat on.

But the tiny village was better.

Tiny doors and tiny lawns.

I don't know if it was the ****.

Tiny houses, tiny problems.

One day I will open the door and be me, that lesbian.

Tiny words fight against
clasped lips.

Bruised hips and
cosmic oxygen.

When life is a sin,
it's worth living in,
worth waiting for
the horizon.

So bring me the sun,
bring me my gun,
bring me gin.

Give me false grins,
and
false positives.

Tip back the flask but all you taste
is hot hose water.

Cold water turned warm by the August summer sun.

I was playing at the park waiting for my spot at Violin lessons.

I was not a member of this school.

Girls in unifrom I was probably like 10 years old.

I was taking violin classes at a super fancy school.

I remember going to the playground and two girls in uniforms tried to beat me up.

I was nimble.

Another time at a public school on the time two girls tried to beat e up.

I don't know if it was because I am half black or what.

I am glad I am no longer there.

There's always a girl.

That one,

girl.

There are always simple things in life that we cling onto for no apparent reason.

But maybe for those same reasons, we think about that one girl.

It could be the most simple of things.

An umbrella, a pair of sunglasses, a hockey puck, a used towel, a plastic dinosaur, a novel, a feeling, a kiss.

It can be burned in forever.

Only to be melted away by the warmth that is Spring.

Only thawed, never burned.

We couldn't be,
because she knew
I loved her.

I wish I knew why
that was wrong.

I can't be with you
because
I know you love me.

I remember her
face when I shut the door.

The way she bit her tongue
and called her mother
to drive me home.

They dropped me off in the rain,
when the pain
was just setting in.

I don't think I've ever been the same
since.

She knew
I loved her,
and yet she still
let me in.

She ****** on my heart
She played pretend.

"I can't be with you because I know you're in love with me."

She's a ghost to me now,
and that's why it still hurts.

I didn't do anything to her.

I just loved her,
and that's what I told her
the last time we spoke.

I wish this were a joke but.

It still hurts.

H if you're out there.

Please.

Give me the time
to at least,

Say

Something.

Blocks, cells, and blocks,

we are all cells.

In cells.

Cells of ourselves.

Cells of sides of someone
we thought we knew well.

I can hear conversations echoing
in the hallways of my hair,
or perhaps

It just coming from upstairs.

We can't see each other
but we can hear each other.

We can blow bubbles from the bottom floor
and know that they reach the top.

I can hear people telling their dogs to stop.
Telling children to stay back, and be careful.

All these sounds ringing.

Apartment quarantine.

Home life limousine.

Someone plays music for all to hear.

We stand on our balconies,

We applaud, we cheer.

From this tiny lonely life that we are all now living.

Remember the happiness, remember the giving.

I have finally realized why I have never felt pretty.

It is because, because...

I have dated several people who have called me beautiful.

But I could never understand why they would say that.

I assumed it was a formality.

For years, and years, some people have been attracted to me.

And I didn't know why.

Now that I am finally living in my correct sexuality.

With a fiance soon to be wife.

I am starting to understand.

She calls me beautiful, and pretty.

And doesn't under stand why I don't agree.

And it's because I never see anyone who looks like me.

So mixed, mixed salad.

Darkish skin, asian eyes, trini lips trini hips, white something? I don't know.

I look like nothing anyone has ever known.

My hair is both Trini, white, asian, and whatever else is peppered into who I am.

I am an almost complete puzzle of races.

I think only I can fully grasp that.

Forgive me for being so glum.

Hum, hum.

I am fine and I am humble.

The smell of death isn't sweet.

Discrete, discrete.

Death is but a child.

A child I kneel to and ;come, come come.

The moon falls and rises,
follow the light.

She whispers places of safety.

I burst to flames and parts decay.

I fall, I fall.

Places, places to
see.

I am undone.

Come, come.

I walk down the street, through the forest. I see ashes of those who tried. Tried to come.
come.
come.

It's over now isn't it?

I see rivers, I see oceans.
Stay uniquqe.