Growing up in a culture where
you are not supposed to exist,
you become accustomed to the generosity
of people trying
to fix you, to
force you into a shape
they can understand.

I did not know how exhausting it was,
trying to remain elastic
in a world that demands us to be static,
trapping us in binary boxes where
we wilt in our confinement but,
against societal expectations,
we refuse to suffocate ourselves
for your comfort.

Together, we will stand in the light,
heads held high with unmatched pride
for we have fought too long and
too hard for our right
to be here
to live silently with
our heads bowed low
any longer.

I exist in the space between worlds,
never truly a citizen
of any one of them, just
a wanderer passing though, looking
for a home
I will never find.

I live in the gray that
separates night from day,
weaving and bending my existence
to blend into the background.

I am the static you despise,
forgotten in the silence between heartbeats,
stalking the shadows
of your imagination.

I am the fog that bridges the gaps
between realities,
formless and boneless, I
smother the void between the light and the dark
so you need not fear the sight
of the abyss.

But, I warn you,
be careful in your step
for I only obscure the in-between to
safeguard your sanity.
I cannot keep you from falling
into the fate I have become.

Though I grow weary of this listless journey.

I am but a ghost
stitching together the worlds
of the living
and the dead.

Each step is taken                      
                                for granted.

Confident that the terrain will remain
unchanged, solid and dependable beneath
our feet, beaten down by the ones
who have walked before us,
we forget to think about
our destination, and when the
path inevitably betrays our trust,
our arrogant stride falters
as the world shifts beneath our soles.

It is no wonder that we stumble when
trying to blaze our own trail.
So, remember to be wary about
where you step on your quest
for answers.

Let me disappear off these mortal maps
          and become a citizen of the void.

Let me revel in the peace of decay,
          as my bones lay in the comforting embrace
          of the silent earth.

Let the stars steal the light
          from my eyes
          so that, even in my absence,
          I can still guide you home.

Let me fall brokenly upon death's door
          and leave nothing but a disintegrating stone
          to claim my ashes.

I don't care how steep the price,
          please, just
                          let me leave and
                                     don't ask me to come back.

There is a disconnect between my body and my mind.
At least, that's what I tell people.
Because I find it easier to admit
that I am broken
than to open myself to their ridicule
as I try to explain asexuality
one more time.

It's hard, to describe an absence
of something you've never felt
to those for whom it defines their existence.
I don't understand their resistence,
logic dictates that just because one thing is true,
that doesn't eliminate the validity
of it's reflection.
It has become this society's obession
to portray us only as a lie, a
sickness you are lucky not to be infected with.

Though I am still struggling to find my voice
and understand my own mind,
I am sure of one thing:
I am not BrOkEn.
And if you are like me, please,
don't let your pride be stolen,
because neither are you...

The deepest depths of our lungs
have been deprived of oxygen
for so long
that we cannot remember what is like
to breathe,
deeply and unhindered by
this binder
as the constriction threatens to
collapse the cavity of our chest.

Willingly, we trade our breath
for the exquisite, piercing pain
that we quickly come to associate with
peace of mind
and freedom
because it means the reflection of our silhouette
finally matches the physique our
dysphoria has been telling us
we should have had
our whole lives.

In time, this addiction festers and
we bind longer and more often as
our bodies grow weaker and
our minds more chaotic until,
despite the destruction,
we cannot bear to take them off
and face the truth
written in our curves.

The pain is at one with us now.
We endure, if only to be able to
run our hands longingly down
our flattened chests
as we wait, hoping that,
one day,
we will finally be able to learn
what it is like to
breathe again.

Before my brother grew up and forgot the colors of the sky,
He shared with me a secret.
That to become invisible, one only needs to climb,
For most adults have forgotten the shape of the world
Beyond their shoelaces.

Barren, winter-worn branches stretch gray
Against the timid rays of the springtime sun,
Coaxing forth tiny, vibrant leaves that
Will age to weave themselves into the walls of
The sanctuary I inherited from my brother.

Wedged between the highest limbs,
I disappeared.
Peering between the wrestling leaves
Of my favorite maple tree,
I marveled at all I could not see,
Reaching out to trace the sharp indigo mountains
From which mystic creatures rose
To claim the expanse of my imagination.
Here, I lost myself
In realms of endless fantasy.

Now, the seasons cycle past, each spring
Rebuilding the leaf-bricked castle
Of my childhood, but
The creatures I once knew have faded from existence,
For I, too, am forgetting the colors of the sky.

Creased and tucked behind the ID in
my wallet, is a photograph
of my mother,
sitting in a simple square rocking chair,
gazing lovinlgy down at
the newborn cradled reverently
to her chest, a smile softens her face
into one I do not recognize,
transformed by the miracle in her arms
I am rarely allowed to hold,
her first grandchild, only hours old.

She turns to gaze through the lens,
eyes burning through time, finding mine
and her expression falls flat,
aging into the woman I would face
a year from then.
Her lips curling back, exposing yellowed teeth,
face twisting in disgust to revive in vivid color
the image imprinted on my memory
of my mother's rejection
each time I dare look at it
reeling back in fresh pain.

But I cannot bear to discard
the only image I have
of my niece,
so I tuck it carefully away
between one-dollar bills
for another day.

The universe grows aware of itself
through human eyes,
torn between wonder and horror
at all it has become
and created.

Burdened by the weight
of consciousness, it learns
to yearn for death,
to cease and return to
the bliss of the void
where it sees nothing at all.

This is how the teens, now adults,
Cope with their newfound independence,
Overwhelmed by the world and
Drunk on their freedom,
Here, where minds are warped
And time is replaced by the
Spinning of your head as
Our souls are pulled together in
Meaningless,
Powerful ways,
Only daring to fall into
The comfort of one another
As poison courses through our veins,
Setting our minds safely adrift
In the static.

Under the cheap, yellowed lights of
Barren apartments and temporary IKEA dorms,
Our limbs turn boneless
As we submit to the gravity,
Unable to stand,
Crashing together on torn up couches
Threatening to collapse,
Reveling in the warmth of each other as
Rambunctious laughter bubbles forth,
Unbidden, from tired throats as
We try in vain to keep the night at bay,
Seeking peace beyond reality.

But don't know how to quantify
What happened,
This poem is for you.

Remember that just because your mouth cannot cradle
The word ****
Between clenched teeth like you know it should,
Doesn't invalidate what happened to you.

I didn't - don't,
Know how to describe
What happened
To me either.
And while I know my friends had good intentions
When they insisted that, yes,
It was ****,
And that, no,
It was not my fault,
It feels as if they are shoving
These words into my lungs,
Bile burns the back of my throat and
I can't breathe.

The next morning,
My mind refused to admit
What my body knew and
My stomach threatened to desert me as
My voice had deserted me
The night before, and
A tremor tunneled it's way into
My bones, to make a home
Beneath my skin like he did.
It hasn't stopped yet,
I fear it never will.

For days afterwards,
I lied awake, trying in vain
To erase the memory
Of his touch,
Focusing on tracing the cracks
On the ceiling instead of the
Trails his hands etched
Into my skin.

To even think of it
As ****
Is to give it a name, to
Make it tangible and real when
I just want to forget.
But when we refuse to name
Our reality, we are giving it
More power than it deserves,
And I am tired of being afraid
Of my own tongue.

But I still can't call it ****,
Not yet,
And that's okay for right now
Because, one day,
I will find the strength
To say his name.

Here the weary rest upon the shore to
admire this mountain lake, a mirror struck
by dusk. Now watch how water turns from friend

to foe, at night it mimics chasms deep
and wide in absence of the heavens’ light.
Shadows come to haunt the mind and wake the million

voices buried far beneath our consciousness.
You stray from dreams to lie awake and wait
for the patient plea; the void is calling

you home. I know I cannot keep you
from heeding the insistent pull, my friend,
so powerful the draw of Death’s own flute.

Take solace in the knowledge that, I hear it too.

to look at a photograph
of a place
you once knew,
to know you walked there.

You try to recall what it must have looked like,
back then,
try to imagine the caress of the wind, or
what you know it must have smelled like, or
how the ground shifted
beneath your feet.

But you can't.

Memory is funny that way.
We remember without remembering.
These photographs are nothing but
broken portals to the past
leaving only chasms of static
where life should have been.

a little darker and I grieve the sun’s radiance,
suffocated by the smoky skies
born of the inferno that now paints the horizon
of places we once called home and, in silence,

the heavens weep, the earth quakes
and my shoulders shake as the world collapses
under the weight of a single mistake.
Tears cascade down from above to sizzle and evaporate

before they can ever reach the pyre.
Helplessly, I bowed my head as you embraced the fire,
the blood escaped from your veins
now feed the flames

and I cannot help but to envy the charred, twisted skeleton
you left behind and remember the hesitant
echo        your heartbeat left in my chest
of yesterday.

This desperate need to grasp a pen and
turn the chaos of my thoughts into
conceivable sins is
overpowering.

All these stories burned into my flesh
demand reparation and
the echoes from my past
still etched into my bones
ache for retribution which
is not mine to give.

Yet, still they continue to beg
for the relief of confession, to
be freed from the suffocating confines
of the abyss masquerading as
my mind.

But, I can't.
Not this time.
Some secrets should be left
to die alone in the dark.

For years, you never left home without a watch
clasped tight around your wrist and, I know,
no one noticed the day you left it behind.

Now your wrist rests barren on white linen
beside mine while the cracked face collects dust
on your nightstand, shed

because you already knew
how much time you had left.
Your burden now is mine and I stitch

my veins together with a watch of my own
as I wait for yours to split before my eyes, for
the day you use your blood as paint

to taint my skies with crimson.
The hands' hollow ticking fills the silence of
tomorrow, counting each pulse

until you say goodbye for good this time.

We are patchwork beings
               assembled from the broken pieces
                              others tried to fix before
                                             abandoning them
                             at our feet
                                         in the aftermath
                                                           of our collision.

in this life,
I had not realized I had learned,
for it is one of the first
we are ever taught.

Our first experience
of this world, consists only
of cold and pain, yet,
we learned how to breathe
in the harshness
of this reality.

So ingrained is this truth that
we rarely dwell upon it.
It is only when oxygen is denied us
that we remember our first lesson in life.

To breathe.

Just breathe,
and keep breathing.
Calm you heart and your mind.
Life may be out of your control but
you can control the constriction
of your lungs.

Take solace in the knowledge that
everything will be alright,
as long as you remember
to breathe.

I have never heard my mother apologize.
We lived without the warning lightning brings of thunder,
each evening waiting, wondering,
who would fall victim to her rage tonight?

The piercing shriek of my mother bursts through the door,
shattering the precarious silence,
for this house wears anger
like a second skin.

The walls resume their dance to the beat
of my mother's fists.
But better wood than flesh,
better broken glass than broken teeth.

Instinct drove my body shrinking against the wall,
desperately trying to fade into the safety of shadow
before my mind could even register her screams.
My brother had returned.

I can still hear the accusations hurled at him in greeting,
because he didn't tell her he was back.
Seeking to surprise us, he had come home that night,
only to be welcomed with sneers and blame.

He snapped.

My brother's tongue joined the fray,
edged with the venom from years of bottled rage
and the familiar symphony of fury
resonated between these trailer house walls.

I flinch, feeling the front door bury itself in the plaster,
the indignant screech of the screen door following close behind.
Wide-eyed, vision blurred with unshed tears and my chest tight with fear,
I listened.

Sharp in its conviction,
my brother's voice cut through the din
as he gave our mother one last chance.
"If I walk out this door, I'm never coming back."

In harmony with the vibrations of this cracked foundation,
my brother's words still echo in my memory
and I grieve in the silence.