Dear father
 it's not my fault my mind works overtime as it is not the same as yours my mind works in a different way I'm so sorry I was not the way you wanted but the way I wanted to be from birth to now I am who I am to be I let you control me for too long with the agony of the slicing of my wrist the pain that you saw taken  upon your child
That is no longer my reality is not shatter to the words of which you speak my words are not silenced by your needing of my conformity disownment by disassociation was not of what you wanted as I was a tool of your disguise hiding away from the world
 dear father you disowned me for the man I fell in love with you just owe me for the person who saved me from the reality of what you shattered if you wish to tear me down I have another by my side my Army is behind me you will never see the battle war of my mind again disownment the act of being disowned by your own person the person who tells you they love you but then goes back and regrets it disownment seems to be a word that strikes so far with you for you to do it with your only child disownment all those countless days and nights of pain wishing for death gone disownment the unhappiness of which I just became my own person
 disownment the end of the story you seem to --

-know so well

sleep curved miles of patched dead boys into me like a scythe.
their quilts were not mine to sweat through,
to drench nightly with my self.
but i cried out anyway.
said i needed stained warmth more than coffins ever could.
bare as they were.
prodigal as they were.
i turn aside in bed. i sweat it out.
sleep handed me its crowded city plots and boxes of
one-way ticket disownment boiled down
to an art exhibit of photographed bodies.
black and white bodies. end of life bodies.
i tore them into manageable halves.
their varied human pieces quilted themselves together onto the floor.
their eyes floated to land at my shoes.
i stared.

yet it was sleep who drew in
the fluttering array of lost bandanas dyed with every coy color
present on the rare days here
that always smelled more like mornings,
the colors peeking like barefoot children just around the corners of their smirking, drowsy city avenues after rain.
sleep dreamt me an after hours carousel.
the revelry of skintight garbage bags
brimming over with ****** boys.
lovely boys.
boys with a gleam.
faceless baby boys with sores like eyes,
full of their junk they
treasured, fondled, kissed
the little pound of flesh that was theirs,
they gave freely, bait and tackle
to swallow whole.
dust bowl dumpling soft.
pulsing expectance.
those skins underneath you’d discover pressed to an eternity of sorts
between two slurs of the same brick,
that its nightless club grime
mumbled disco sickly to me & him.
and i’d be on my knees.
by a bed, a river, a quilt, a pew, an avenue, a grave.
whatever useless dreams may come,
i always find myself there.
already knelt in every way i couldn’t possibly comprehend.
gravely, maybe beautifully-
beside another slumbering boy
too distant from life not to reach for.

A tulip sowed onto the harsh ground
Awaits the weeds of the community
Suckling on its dew, defiling it all around
To live in this world, To face inhumanity

The miasma of lust and disownment
Suffocating and killing the tulip
Ravishing the flower to their heart's content
Cling to that small ray of light, oh tulip

Never let them hinder your growth
Soon you will be ready to bloom
And all those weeds you loathe
Will be brought to their doom