If i could take my sewing machine and sew you a song,
it would tell of old tales of girls sat by rivers crying their tears in to a river of wrong.
There would be a loud crescendo as time came to pass,
and love would be gentle, and not lost and profound,  
as much as it would tell you how to make it last.
It would tell the tale of two lovers, who struggled to survive, their love.
They made hope for each other, prayed for help from above.
Two lovers who had burns on their hearts from being burnt alive.
From being burnt by some other burnt heart.
From some other love whose love had dearly left and was depart.
The two lovers would be lost in each other, they would console and it would be suffit.
It would be enough.
It would not be enough, they would fear.
And this they held tight to their chest, next to the heart, and they held it dear.
They would long for the day when they would overflow from each other like a tap drips into a hole.
And from this sink, they would drink a mouthful of love everyday,
and this is enough,
they would, say, as their hurt became sewn into their soul.
If i could sew you a life in a pattern of cloth,
I would sew you a life that was love and that was loss.
I would sew you how people were lost from each other and had gone to war,
how they would cut their heart out, purely just because it was sore,
how these people would find themselves in each other but not in themselves anymore,
and how i would sew with cotton and silk,
and how you would see lovers crying, blood mixed with milk.
How you would see the colour of the sky that came from their eyes,
and the hate,
and the fame that came from their despise.
If i had some cotton i would sew you a tale.
I would would sew you a story,
but that would make no sense to someone with the universe in their hands,
and they would feel the love leaving between their fingers like fine pieces of sands,
and how they would not see hate but see the hearts of ten lost men,
who died in a coma of love,
and tore their muscles and shaved their hair for the lament,
of the ten girls who sat and cried to the lord above.
Oh if how i could sew you this tale,
if i could write and weave a song into life from these words,
how i could give you all of that which you deserve,
my love.
I could show you the heavens in your palms,
and the hell you construct that lays in your arms.
I would show you that we lose and we gain,
and that learning to let go, is never an ill gotten game.
For we lust, we love, and we let it all go,
and oh, my, god, doesn't it hurt so?
For you i would sew this with my sewing machine with a red letter and a gold pen,
and it would be a magnificent tale of way back when,
men were men,
and women stayed at home,
and the dog sat in front of the fire with a juicy bone.
There would be no jealousy,
no in-trepidation of fear that someone would steal thy love,
that someone would make you question yourself,
and that you are less worthy than thought from above.
And so with delicate fingertips, i weave and i sew,
for all of this my love,
for all of this you should know,
that love is never easy, and love comes, and love shall go,
and i am not forever, but i am here right now,
and i shall be here for a long time, if you were to take this vow,
sign me here with my cotton, and my lace,
let me give you a second look in the mirror at your face,
for is this you, for whom i sew this song,
is this for everything you lost, and everything that went wrong,
is this for your forefathers who loved and hated and cried and slaved away,
is this for your lovers, who changed when the night became the day?
Or is this for you,
who i see so very clearly,
for who i cannot but see,
and for who i would fight for with my hands, my fingers, my tongue,
bent, broken and down begging on one knee.
For i love so dearly.
For this is a song sewn in to the fabric of time,
i sew,
and it is for you,
for you are for me,
and it is mine.

I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that *******  heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus

Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis

I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren

So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems  enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body

I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too



Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.

The proudest thing I think I've ever done,
Such artistry, such skill I have attained!
The semi-glaze reflecting of the sun,
The richness of the blue, so lightly stained;
So perfect is the pointed pouring spout
That sits upon a rim of gold emboss,
And proudly do the handles both stick out,
Exquisite is the painted Celtic cross;
I toiled and slaved for oh so many years,
My fingers ever wet and moist with clay,
But now at last I'm free of all the fears
And doubts that clouded me until this day;
        I know you'll all be very pleased for me,
        So thanks, my friends, on Hello Pottery!

A slave to hate is free from love,
a slave to mediocrity- free from passion.

A slave to confinement is free from wandering,
a slave to blindness- free from seeing.

We are all slaves,
all free,
all a contradiction.

Growing up at a young age with ADHD can be a lot of fun. Everything just becomes that much more interesting. The sky seems so vast and every single blade of grass looks just as interesting as the one right next to it. My mind raced with questions every single second. I felt the only way to express it at times was relentlessly running around, as if every step I took gave me a satisfactory answer to each question I thought about; which was ultimately a lot of steps. It would be enough to drive most people into a state of madness. Not me though, I swore to the heavens I’d have every question answered. Because believe me, the seconds would feel like hours for every moment I didn’t know just how much wood a woodchuck could chuck.

Here’s my perspective; Thoughts in general are like the light from the stars that always shine the same brightness throughout the day. They are always there. Existing, even when you can’t see them. At least that’s how it is for normal people, you get the grace of day to nullify the shining of the light from those stars at times when it can be overbearing. You get a break. If I could describe what it’s like to have ADHD, picture your mind never turning off. It is always bright for me, and there is no dawn or day to alleviate my eyes from the galaxy of lights I see. It’s a beautiful disaster. You’re always thinking out loud to yourself about everything around you. When thinking about the concept of having a conscious and subconscious, you don’t even believe in the separation of the two. You think so much because of the energy flowing through your nerves, that there could be no way another part of your brain retains knowledge you don’t already consciously know. There’s so many questions every single second, that there needs to be some sort of way to express it. Mine would come through continuos questions and obviously, a lot of running around.

I guess I didn’t understand much about people back then, though. I was too busy exploring my mind and all the ideas that sprouted within it every second. I never thought it could be a bad thing. My father seemed to think differently at times.

The worst part about having an overactive thought process, is not being able to express it. Those thoughts have to go somewhere; and if they don’t, they build up  in a *** on a back burner until the lid finally blows off and explodes as some type of extreme emotion, from anger to sadness.  

As a kid, I have too many memories of confrontations with my father when I said something he didn’t agree with. Almost as if he thought I was overstepping my bounds as a male in his house by only talking about what was on my mind. If he didn’t like what I said, or if he didn’t agree with it, “I was an idiot.” It didn’t stop there either.

Conversations about things I’ve learned had to be defended with the words, “But dad, my teacher just taught us this today in class!”

“Well then, your teachers an idiot.” he would respond. It seemed like he knew the answer to everything. Even after I went to school and got an education that his tax dollars were paying for, it wasn’t enough to get him to agree quickly with things I said. It seemed everybody was an idiot, and as a kid, I almost thought it was normal to be one at a point. Everybody seemed to be doing it.

But even the innocence of a kid knows when something feels wrong. It didn’t take much of looking at his gritting teeth and clenched jaw to know either. I would watch the muscles in his cheeks and forehead pulsate with blood every time he squeezed his fist in stubbornness; as if his fists were his heart in that moment

I guess what hurt the most about the confrontations, was the awareness that he was not always this kind of man. I’ve seen him in different lights before. Brighter lights, where his happiness rained in a room and brought joy to everyone. Times where you’d never think the same man was consumed by a darkness that made him blind to reason. The pain came with knowing I was fighting to express myself to the same man that would make me laugh till my ribs felt weak. The person who I loved seeing happy, that much more because I saw how the shadows of the clouds he carried with him, darkened his spirit.

His alcoholism and addictions didn’t help aid his perspectives for the better either. Bottle after bottle I would watch get consumed, all the while his fuse grew shorter in those moments as his BAC grew higher. Cigarettes on the daily, pills and ***. Anything to escape the pain he harbored like a shipyard.

I started keeping my thoughts to myself more. At that age, I was innocent enough to believe I was wrong for having an opinion, or speaking my mind. I thought it was wrong to think the way I thought, so I maliciously put those thoughts on a back burner; And that’s when it started.

The silence, or I guess people would say, “the introvert,” found its way into my life. It’s such a tragedy of irony. The person who always thought a mile a minute, and still does, now barely says a word. Keeping himself locked away in his brain because there’s no key that could unlock him from the darkness of judgement. I was told I was an idiot and that I was wrong so many times that I never wanted to be those things again. If I never spoke, I never had to worry about hearing it.

For years I stayed quiet about the things that went on inside my brain, and it literally killed me. I felt like I was being robbed of my imagination, or rather I was robbing other people in this world of my imagination. Simple and plain, my thoughts weren’t being put out there. They continued to boil on my back burner, occasionally exploding every now and then into anger and depression. All of those amazing thoughts I used to have, now felt like fire burning through my veins for every pulse that kept them there to never be released.

I resented my dad, and won’t forget the day I told myself I wouldn't become him. I never would of imagined that that would be the day I put an invisible blind-fold on. Because I had swore to myself I would never act like my dad, my foggy eyes would never catch the times that I did. There was just no way I would or could be like him because he character caused me too much pain.

Conversations with other people started becoming more debate-like, I was always quick to defend my point because I didn’t want to be wrong. I talked more than I listened. If you didn’t know what I was saying, you just didn’t understand where I was coming from. I kept and thought to myself all the time. So much, that when I finally did release what was on my mind, it had to be right because I spent enough time to myself analyzing it. Other people just couldn’t understand that. They couldn’t.

Remember that boiling *** on the back burner; that occasionally explodes? Well, now it was now on the verge of imploding. I was so fixated on never being wrong, it was almost like I was never wrong. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Yeah it did to me too. When I noticed it, that’s when I imploded.

I couldn't believe I became exactly what I told myself I would never become. All of those past thoughts and hatred imploded in my brain and trickled down the inside of my body, burning me. I burned, but not with anger, I burned with depression and more silence. It was a vicious cycle. Speaking, especially to other people, almost became taboo to me. It seemed weird and out of place because it involved more emotions. I was kind of tired of feeling at that point. I had already felt enough through all of the episodes I would have from my explosions. Not to mention, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I was my dad spitting image when I talked to other people. Depression can really be a vicious cycle, and I remember how much it would recycle itself in my life.

I would spend hours in school, with a million thoughts to say, but never spoke out. I hated myself for it, which would get me depressed. Which would then get me depressed for knowing I was depressed; making me depressed because I was depressed I was depressed. There seemed to be no escape.

I started abusing substance, from alcohol to ****. My abuse, came from the justification that I told myself I was doing it to understand perspective. I wanted to explore the same world of addiction that my dad did. I wanted to come to understand what it’s like to live in a world of dependency and escape. Boy did that backfire on me. I went into it thinking I could just jump right back out of it; that’s not what happened. I was quickly consumed with darkness, escape and depression. Anxiety got the best of me now, because I felt trapped in this world of rumination and hopelessness.

What was depression for me? Its was being stuck in a dark room, separated from the light of happiness by a cruel lock door. A locked door that had a small viewing glass for you to see what lies on the other side of it, within your reach. It was having what seemed like an entire ring of keys to open the door with, yet they’re all the same key. Depression was refusing to stand up, to take advantage of the little bit of light that shined through the viewing glass for me. The little bit of light that would of shown me I was recycling the same key, over and over again. All because I tried to use the dark to see.

I felt that my voice was unheard and I finally got to the point where I didn’t want to live anymore. I used to wish and pray that I’d contract a horrible disease or illness cause I thought it’d be the only way for people to truly hear the words I had to say. It’s a shame that I would even think this. But what even more shameful than that, is how much more words really are cherished after someone has died, or is dying. I had a one track mind for sacrifice, and was hell bent making it happen. I smoked **** by myself; occasionally drank in my lonesome; compulsively ate more than I should; anchored myself to be a sloth in my bed, slaved away to TV and constantly stressed myself over the little things I did. Anything that would speed up the process of my downfall, I did.

I still felt empty though, my collapse wasn’t happening as instantaneous as I hoped, which gave my relentless mind more time to think about it. I did want to live, I didn’t want to have to be this sacrifice to get my point across. “It’s such a cop out," my mind would occasionally blurt out to get my attention. “So what if I’m like my dad? Shouldn’t that be more of a reason to be able to empathize with him when he gets the way he does?"

It wasn’t until the day I got the brilliant idea that maybe I should speak what’s on my mind, that I saw how powerful I could feel. I’ll tell you something though, fighting through the agita you get in the back of your throat is hard. It literally stops you from talking. You know what you want to say, and exactly how you want to express it, but you overthink it and think you’re going to mess up expressing something you know is simple. That agita is the fear in the back of your throat that reminds you of why you feel that way. I didn’t want to result to the back burner again though, so I fought through the pain no matter how bad my chest hurt.

Eventually, I stopped resenting my father. I took it upon myself to sit down and throughly write him a letter, expressing the way I felt about our relationship. About how all I wanted was to see him happy, I was very blunt about how I felt. This is a part of that letter:

"When I think about how long it took me to write this, it’s pretty sad really. And it’s not even because my writing skills we’re slacking, the sad part is what I thought I had to do in order to write this to you. Every day that I would try and write this, I would put alcohol and drugs into my body because I thought it would aid me in my creative writing. But instead, pretty much the opposite happened. I sat staring at a computer screen ruminating about my own troubling thoughts and personal anger. So I sat even longer staring at that screen thinking I needed more substance in my body to awaken the thoughts that I so longed to express. I used and abused until I just got too tired of trying to write and passed out. My point is, I made excuses to take in substances for my own personal benefit because the whole time I was really trying to run away from the problem instead of facing it. When I really sit back and analyze myself as well as you, I see a huge correlation between us. And to be honest, I think it’s a big contributing factor to my depression. Not because me and you are similar, but because we’re similar and you think you’re so different. Do you want in on something I’ve never directly told you? Growing up, I’ve always had persistent urge to make you a happier person. Ever since I noticed how depressed and upset you were, I told myself I would stop at nothing until you saw the good that life has to offer. I didn’t realize how high I set my expectations until they were ripped out from under my feet. My interventions got me nowhere but further into a rut with you, not to mention they were labeled as girlish emotions to have. It’s funny how fast you can go from being helpful to being angry, which is exactly what happened to me. I became so obsessed with trying to make you a happier person that I started becoming angrier that nothing was working. My anger turned into depression and I started smoking **** significantly more to run away from the fact that it seemed like there was nothing I could do to help you out. I started seeing all the negative aspects of life and didn’t want to go out and have fun anymore, so I started compulsively eating and religiously watching TV. Not to mention, I would spend an abnormal amount of time on my computer. I went to the doctor 2 weeks ago, and since the last time I went there which was less than a year ago, I put on 20 pounds. I feel like ****, but I lie to everyone because I don’t want them to see how much I’m suffering on the inside. You know, there was a point a few months ago where I didn’t care if I died or got extremely sick, I actually hoped for it. I looked at my life as a sacrifice for the well being of other people, as well as for my own benefit. If I had gotten really sick or diagnosed with a horrible disease, I knew people would pay more attention to me. I knew that people would listen to my opinion more because it was more “influential” on them because of the fact I was probably going to die. I kind of counted on pity to be an influencing factor on me being influential to others, which is kind of like giving up. It’s kind of strange that you hear that coming from me, huh?"

I took the burden of my father off my shoulders, and I must say we get along a lot better today. He never thought I'd be able to relate to him in the ways that I did in the letter I wrote, and he broke down in tears to me. I never chose to give up on the thoughts that went on in my mind. I still struggle with expressing how I feel at times, but it’s not stopping me from trying to fight past it. I know I can relate to him if I allow him into my life instead of shutting him out indefinitely.

I have this belief that traumatic experiences can be the gateway to self-change. Trauma happens to us all, and it can be the very foundation of a person’s character. It can be what shapes your fears, develops strengths or weaknesses to certain situations and can overall can be a burden-like thought that you carry with for the rest of your life. Trauma’s have their ranges of impact and can even go as far as sending a person over the edge to end their own life. One that has stuck with me my whole life, which most people wouldn’t guess to be, was disguised in silence. People that go through traumatic experiences don’t always have crazy superficial cuts and bruises, a lot of the scars of their traumas remain on the inside, hidden away from plain view.

Words briskly picked
from the fruits of your memoirs,
galloping air you forcibly breathe
the music you hear, the colours you see.
the hymns you appreciate,
shows traces of wonderland,
the hints and pieces
ah, superficial paradise.
Now you tell me stories
I'd ought to focus and listen,
As I see the snap of your fingers
Loud words and Whispers,
vines and wrapped my heart
without any given reasons,
you provoke and attest,
Your hideous mission.
to capture and get,
Slaved by your intentions,
with peace and love,
through your life lessons.
You've given grip
through friendship and company.
I will raise this glass
for our uncharted destiny.

ACT I

Scene 1

Scene: A fleet of small boats on a open sea, carrying a flock of poets, actors, and musicians. They row into the distance, searching for land.

fool

Oh, the horror, the horror! The deadly locked eyes, the motionless limbs, the gray lips, telling me it is the end, no more, horror or else. I felt it too, at moments, though something else; what I felt was the sudden fear of death, what might come afterward, and the loneliness of this solitary journey. I had to escape.

Benedict

Yes, those lost half-lives of inevitable and unrecoverable tragedy, the guilt, unable to close in, and so moving away from the sorrow. Turning eyes away from the horror, no, get away from them entirely, let none of them escape with us. The tragedy, the grotesque demons.

FOOL

Yes, let them not chase us toward the end of the vast and endless voyage, and if we die so, let it be quick.

BENEDICT

Quick, by the thundering strike of heavenly signs, let us be at peace.

Virginia

Oh, no more, no more. Leave those thoughts behind, send them to exile as we have been for our refusal of "high tragedy."

Fool

So, it shall-(The Fool stands up, squinting to the distance.) Look! Is that a patch of dry land?

BENEDICT

Yes, our salvation of isolation, our comedic Garden of Eden!(A roar of cheers from all, though each voice distinct on its own.)

Scene 2

The troop have landed on the unnamed island.

Argorn

Here we shall be settled.

VIRGINIA

What a handsome little place!

Katty

Then we shall make it our home!

northworth

Home, yes, but home of what? A wild circus of cowards?

BENEDICT

No, cowards of tragedies but advocate of joy, happiness, and comedy.

Fool

Comedy! We are the Comedians!

NORTHWORTH

Very well, so we are.

VIRGINIA

Yes, laughter and happiness.

Argorn

We shall not only avoid tears, anguish, and sorrow, we shall make them crimes of criminals, we shall uphold only the Highest Order of Comedy!(In the distance, a ship carrying the mimes arrives.)

NORTHWORTH

Oh, look, so the mutes are here as well.

ARGORN

(To the mimes as they arrive.)

Wipe your black tears off your faces! Leave only the red smiles, we are a tribe of comedy not tragedy. (They do as they have been told.) There, better.

NORTHWORTH

Ah, here comes the musicians. (A band of cheerful flute, drums, and violin players arrived.)

Argorn

(To the Band)

Yes, very well, you shall never again play any sad little tune and lure me to anger!

VIRGINIA

Be gentle, Argorn, for only peace shall visit you.

NORTHWORTH

Yes, criminal, anguish, and sorrow, are the horror! They are criminal, criminal!

The band

We promise you only tunes of celebration will be heard on this lovely paradise!

argorn

Very well.

Scene 3

The band plays a cheerful little song while the mimes dances silent to the music. The actors and poets are reading poems of merry endings.

Fool

Oh, her tears, like blossom petals, have fallen and are gone forever.

ARGORN

The sun approves of our sanctum! Look, how the minions of clouds take flee!

NORTHWORTH

Yes, presently they do.

VIRGINIA

Only when morrow comes, shall we be certain of our well-being.

ARGORN

WE WILL BE WELL! FROM DAY TO THE NEXT, THE VILLAINOUS DARKNESS WILL NOT REACH US HERE, I WILL NOT ALLOW IT.

katty

Keep calm, keep calm.

NORTHWORTH

Yes, settle, joy will only come when you are unaware of its flaws and when you take no notice of the hidden misery.

ARGORN

No! Tragedy is horror, tragedy is criminal, it should only be fought, contained and send to exile.


Scene 4

The cheerful tune of the band have slowed with weary into a lingering sad tune, the mime have slowed their dance, and the drawn smiles drips down into a frown.

Argorn nails a notice to a tree. It says, Laws of Comedians.

Argorn

Stand up, you slothful infidels! You have once again turned what could have been joyous and merry into despair!

NORTHWORTH and Virginia

Argorn, you have burdened and slaved them with works of oppression, they are not happy!

The band and the Mimes

Yes, we beg you. Please let us rest, or the music will only be sadder.

ARGORN

No! Rest and what? Allow tragedy to intrude! No, be alarmed, be on guard. We will battle sorrow to the end.

fool

Argorn, only you are the advocate of pain and tragedy!!! You are fighting yourself!

Argorn

WHAT DID YOU DARE SAY?

fool

I dare say, you are what drowns us with slaving pain!

(Argorn advance toward The Fool with a hammer, and knocks him dead.)

Virginia

No, he is dead! Argorn have slain Fool.

ARGORN

Say more, and death or exile awaits you!

NORTHWORTH AND VIRGINIA

(In fear and deviance.)

No, we will send ourselves to exile.

Argorn

And the music!

(The band and mimes quickens their pace, the music and dance does not sound joyful however, but in a rushed mess, it rings of fear. )


Scene 5

The Band and Mimes are lying on the ground, being worked to death by extreme exhaustion trying to bring joy and music for Argorn.

Argorn

Play! Your fools! Why have you all stopped!

(Argorn rushes to where the bodies lay, and stops.)

Oh, are you dead already? Someone else, come and take their place! Don't let the little tune expire!

Katty

(In tears.)

No, I rather be dead to be mocked by your horror! You are a monster!

ARGORN

How dare you cry?

(Argorn kills Katty with the hammer.)

What do you say Benedict, keep the joy alive?

BENEDICT

No, you fool, what do you say is the most horrendous of a tragedy?

ARGORN

Death, I fear.

BENEDICT

Then, who is most foul of a tragedy?

ARGORN

The tyrant of a villain, champion of bloodshed, and one without conscience.

BENEDICT

Then, please, find your conscience, and see around you, the blood, and decaying bodies. What have you done?

ARGORN

NO! NO! I killed them for comedy!

BENEDICT

Yet, what you brought is tyranny, bloodshed, and death.

Argorn

Do you mean I am the villain? Then, please, in the Law of Comedian, execute my execution.

BENEDICT

No, I shall only take my exile now, and leave.

ARGORN

Then, I shall bring peace to this inferno once and for all. (Argorn kills himself, and falls. )

Curtain

Every morning I greet the sun smelling like jasmine and spice
the rays roll through my window
bend nicely and tip their hats like good gentlemen
Only to figure out that I am a man

Surprised and Bent waves stiffen up in their stride
as they switch between reaching down to kiss my hand
something they subconsciously planned to do
ever since that smell of sensual perfume heated up
even the hottest, and the coolest
made them too woozy to stand
to giving an improvised hand shake
A clumsy dance between the fingertips of the prejudged
And the disappointed
As if the swirls in their palms anointed my unexpected presence
Uncomfortably appealing

Their mothers told them not to place judgment on a first impression
that they made, drowned in a sensual stupor
Of pretty scents distributed into the atmosphere
but then my personality
my mannerisms
And the way I walk and talk
WAFTED into their nostrils
like some woman dolled up before a date
with no one
to sit alone and wait
for some wreck of a man to pay a visit
It’s a chauvinistic *******
This scent is
Until they see that this jaw line
Is what it clings to
their nostrils and their eyes
seem to not agree
on what is
me

I tell you I wake up smelling like jasmine and spices
like a woman who spent all night in sin
taking pleasure from her vices
With sweet smelling oils contained in florally adorned vials,
and i waft into every man and woman’s nostrils

and eyes say man
but noses always seem to quarrel with eyes
Because to nostrils sensory surprise
It smells woman so it seems
the only logical compromise must be something in between
these sensory organs so caught up in stereotypes
Eyes bicker with ears and noses
And fingertips
Quick judgments followed by
Categories
trying to
make the puzzle piece
make sense Or
make do with what
makes people feel at ease
To make the absolutely effeminate straight male
Fit
With all the other puzzle pieces

It seems I’m a scratch and sniff
Where you scratch the picture of cinnamon
And smell jasmine
So was I packaged wrong?
No I was manufactured just right
The smell was an add-on
That was added one night
where i spent an entire evening in love
with someone I lost the next day
and in our own way
I slaved her body with oils
That smelt of jasmine and spice
And I wasn’t ashamed of it
they caressed us
and gave every motion an unstoppable velocity
every situation was slippery
and things that shouldn’t have been
almost came to be

as we slept the oils clocked out
and slid down our still interlocked bodies and into the bedspread
where it opened up its homestead
buried its dead, started families and grew in number
until the population of the smell was too strong
too strong and the one I shared the smell with
was gone

but i hold that night fondly
i hold it above my head in all its glory
and when i am judged by my scent and
questioned of my sexuality
i just tell them
I am being the scent i smelled when i discovered my masculinity
and that smell sank into my bed sheets
As an non-removable reminder
Of days past embracing my own tendencies
And a girl who I waved farewell to
And never gave that part of myself to
i am 100% man until i find the right person
a beautiful sight in the sunlight
and when night falls and i can’t see them at all
i can find even more things i like
to take that from me
and i will give it up gladly
and find what it really means to be truly in-between

I’ve found
no one is in-between because of their scent
There is no in-between except
In between man and woman
Man and man
Woman and woman
a subtle in between that you can only find
When you gaze into another’s eyes
And read three letter words imprinted on their iris
Only written for you
And discover what can really exist between two
So let’s all realize that whoever we are
We all strive to be in-between

a slave to sleep
a slave today
slaved to dream.

I couldn’t help myself.
Digging my nails into myself wasn’t enough.

I didn’t want to bite my lip because in a few  days,
I’d be swapping spit with a stranger and I would have
No idea where he’d have been.

I squeezed down on my fingers,
And for a second
I thought I might snap one.

In my head, I was falling.
Even though he walked over
Placed his hand on my thigh,
Even though part of me wanted
To melt
And
Dissolve into his arms,
My mind was a million miles away.

Even as he bent over to look at me,
My eyes would not…
Could not...
Make contact.

He was just a blur.

I knew I was somehow holding my breath
And hyperventilating at the same time.

Was it really such a big deal?
So he woke me up and said some choice words.

Was he even yelling at me?

It felt like he was.

Ripped from nightmare to awaken into another.

It was everything I had not to lock myself in the bathroom,
And by lock, I mean...
Stuffing a towel into the hole where the doorknob was supposed to be, Pushing my back against the door
In a feeble attempt
To create some distance between me and the monster.

But besides the fact he could easily push the door open,
I wasn’t sure if the monster I was referring to was him.
Or within me.

The tissues piled up as I discreetly wiped my tears.
Don’t give him the pleasure of knowing he broke you.
But he knew
I stared blankly at the laptop in front of me,
Tabs open to self-harm help sites.
But I was just absent-mindedly scrolling,
The words barely sinking in.

Was I waiting for the moment to pass?
Or for him to leave me alone for a few seconds?

Somewhere in the distance an exasperated sigh
Signaled he’d grown weary of caring.
Or pretending to care.

My mind raced back and forth
Between demonizing him
And demonizing myself.

I heard the footsteps go down the stairs,
A fridge door open…
Then close.

And when the smell of food wafted up to where I sat, shaking..
I realized I’d be going hungry today.

But it didn’t seem to matter.

What mattered was the space I now had.

He had said I was bright red,
But  I could feel the color draining out of my face
As I held the lit lighter at an angle.

In this position,
The flames licked the metal,
Heating it to a purposeful degree.

Time slowed down.
As I lowered the cheap 7-11 Bic to my skin,
I made the conscious decision to choose an area I could cover.

Contact!
Chills suddenly trickled down my spine,
Every neuron ablaze,
And for a brief second:
Bliss.
Relief.
Release
Relapse.
.
It was nowhere near as good as a blade.
But I couldn’t afford more scars.
At least not the kind that would take weeks to heal.

I pulled the blanket
The one I had made before my grandmothers death,
Around my shoulders.
Lit the green trinket again,
Kissed it to the skin of my ankle.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

By the fourth I knew I had to stop.
Not because I’d be caught.
No he was downstairs
Enjoying the food I slaved away to make yesterday.
I was convinced none would be saved for me....

I had to stop because I could feel myself ramping up and the goal was discretion.
Lest I be accused of trying to manipulate him.
The pain radiated upwards, a warm stab against chilled skin.

Suddenly, I was exhausted.
I wanted to close my eyes and sleep.
Instead, I took a swig from the bottle
Nestled against the foot of the bed.
Silence fell over the house, and even though
At the edges of my consciousness
I could pick up on the low tones of conversation,
The buzzing in my ears drowned out those nuances.

“Maybe I should just lay down for a second.”

Time passed, and once again he was in the room.
Despite hearing him come in, I still jumped when he touched me.
I forced myself to direct my gaze, but it all felt empty.
Words were coming out of his mouth.
Where they questions?
He was calling me weird.
Telling me how I was bringing down the energy in the room with my depression.

He asked me  something and I nodded.
Once.
Twice.

Suddenly he disappeared.

He seemed happy.
Like in some twisted way, my brokenness brought him joy.
Squirreled himself away
In the bathroom I had original wanted to esape to.

I wondered...
If he was ******* to the idea of my wanting to **** myself.

I shook the thought off.
It wouldn’t be surprising.
It didn’t make a difference.

I couldn’t tell how many minutes bled away, but I eventually arose.
Tossed off the covers.
Lit a cigarette.
And allowed the numbness to take over.

As badly as I wanted to sleep, I knew dreams would offer no respite.
My mind merely cycled
Through suicidal scenarios I could not give into.

This is reality.
The last few days were an illusion.
I wish I was brave enough to draw a last breath,
but knew I had no option but to keep living.