Would you have loved me
If i was a worm?
Crushed and torn
Like i mattered nothing at all.

Would you have searched for me
n the soil ?
Would you have made your hands *****
For a while?

But the truth is that
It doesn't matter if I'm a person or worm
I would always have been
Torn and torn and torn.

it's a collection of intrusive thoughts,
you've been taking care of it for so long,
developing an attachment to it,
putting other attachment issues on hold.

it's the most worthless precious thing you have,
the rest of them might not see it, but you do.
the rest of them overlook your worth, too,
so casual you're not even sure it's still there.

such a funny story until it's not,
an impossible theory no one can prove wrong,
it's a collection of intrusive thoughts
that you've been in possession of for so long.

but hope too has a powerful current,
strong enough to move me towards things
I believed I was too weak for.

hope resects the doubt from my body,
and makes the lack of air in my lungs bearable,
until I reach the shore.

and hope, reminds me that there is more.
more to see,
more to experience,
more wonder than dread.

so I’ll do my best to surrender the doubt,
and adopt the hope instead.

You don't take a stand,

because it's complicated --


you say with a sigh.

there’s something hard in my heart.
could it be a tumor? a mass?
no, it’s worse than that.
it’s doubt.

all-consuming, destructive doubt,
that eats away at my sternum and ribs,
disorienting me at every chance it gets.

doubt catches me in the undertow,
and throws me every which way,
until I ask myself:
"why did I want to swim in the first place?"

I’ve never had a simple answer
to who I am.
My head and soul—
they never matched
what the world expected.

Not my body—
that was never the issue.
But inside me—
there she was.
A whisper in the dark,
a smile behind my eyes.
Bertine.

She laughed when I said,
“You’re a boy, look down.”
She just smiled—
that quiet girl
who never gave up.

I was eight,
holding a gift in my hand,
heart pounding.
A blue plastic car—
my favorite.
She opened it,
looked surprised—
but she knew what it meant.
Good enough.

I was the only boy
at the birthday.
But inside,
I was more than that.
In love, wild, confused—
and full of fire.

The teenage years came.
I tried it all,
loved both,
knew little—
but felt everything.
Makeup, rings, Prince blasting loud.
Feminine and masculine
at once.
Borderless.

Today I say bisexual,
but that’s just a word.
I’m more than a label.
I’m me.
With Bertine in the bracelets,
the rings,
and Odin hanging from my neck.

I write this
for anyone who feels the same.
For that kid who says:
“I feel a little different.”
Tell them:
“You’re good enough just as you are.”
Because that’s what it’s about.

Standing strong
in your own truth.
Even when it doesn’t fit
in someone else’s **** box.

those are the options a boy is given at birth,
a choice between two evils—
for to be is to conform,
to choose the path of ignorance,
for to not be is to remove oneself,
to stray from the social norms,

To be is to blend,
to fade into a mass of faces that never ask questions,
to wear the uniform of comfort,
to follow the crowd without ever knowing why.
It’s to shut your eyes,
to smile and nod,
and pretend that you’ve figured it out
when the truth is you’re just drifting,
suspended in a current that leads nowhere.

But to not be—
to stand apart—
is to feel the weight of a world that cannot understand you.
It’s to be misunderstood,
labeled as lost or crazy,
but deep inside,
there’s a fire that refuses to be extinguished.
To not be is to question everything,
even your own reflection,
to challenge what is said to be true
and create your own truths,
even when it feels like you’re the only one who believes them.

And so the boy stands,
on the edge of these two choices,
each a path with its own promise,
its own cost.

To be is to live in a lie that everyone else accepts—
to wear a mask that fits just right,
but hides the person beneath.
To not be is to risk it all—
to tear away the mask,
to live in the rawness of truth,
to be exposed,
and to wonder if the world will ever be ready to see you as you are.

And so, the boy is left wondering
was he given two options at birth?
Or was the real choice always this—
to be neither,
to refuse the roles they've set before him,
and to create his own way,
somewhere between the lies and the isolation?

To decide not what the world tells him he must be,
but to question,
to carve out his own existence—
for, perhaps,
the answer lies in asking the question
again and again…
to be or not to be?

Is a man to feel guilt for having options?
For liking multiple persons at once?
For not having the devotion to one,
that he feels he fails to have for any?

He asks himself this more than he’d like.
Not out loud. Just late at night,
when he’s replaying conversations
and trying to decide what his heart meant.

He likes them—really likes them.
Different people, in different ways.
One makes him laugh like no one else.
Another sees through him like glass.
A third makes him feel safe,
but he’s not sure if that’s love
or just comfort he doesn’t want to lose.

He wonders if there’s something wrong with him—
that he can feel so much
and still feel unsure.
That none of them, alone, feels like enough.
Or maybe he just isn’t ready to give
what they deserve.

He doesn’t want to lie.
He doesn’t want to lead anyone on.
But how do you tell someone,
“I care about you deeply… but not only you”
without sounding selfish, or cruel?

Sometimes, he thinks love should be simpler.
Pick one.
Hold on.
Commit.

But he’s not sure if that’s honesty or just pressure.
Not sure if he wants that, or just thinks he should.
And the guilt—it doesn’t come from doing wrong,
but from not knowing what right even is.

So he stays quiet,
hoping time will bring clarity.
Or courage.
Or maybe enough loss
to force a choice.

And sometimes,
he isn’t even sure if he actually likes them
or if it’s just a moment,
a look,
a need to feel something
that got mistaken for affection.

He keeps asking himself,
“Do I like this person,
or do I just like how they make me feel?”
“Is this a crush, or is it me filling a blank space?”
Some days he’s certain.
The next, not at all.

It’s not about playing games.
It’s not about wanting more.
It’s about wanting to be sure,
and never quite getting there.

He doesn’t want to lie.
He doesn’t want to lead anyone on.
But how do you tell someone,
“I care about you deeply… but I don’t know if it’s real”
without hurting them—or making them doubt everything?

He wishes there were a test.
A checklist.
Something objective to prove
what he feels is true.
Is that weak?
Maybe.
But he’s tired of pretending
that feelings follow rules.