1) Gasoline

“He had punched a mirror. We found him on the floor, sifting through the shards of his broken reflection to find the piece that nobody liked. He cut his hand in the process and we asked him to stop bleeding. He had always been difficult. We wrapped him in gauze, cut a hole out for his lips, and told him to smile.”



As a child my glasses were foggy. The sleeve of my sweater was always wet and my cheeks were flushed. In contrast everyone else seemed to have dry clothes and fair eyesight. I stuck out like a bad joke with no punchline. I was that feeling you get when you try to jam the wrong shape through one of those Fisher-Price toys-- it doesn't fit but you force it anyway. My mother left my sister and I when we were five years old, and my dad turned to the bottle. We lived in a small town. Early in school I was the slightly effeminate social-butterfly who only mingled with girls. I was at that age where behavior is instinctual and influenced by your parents-- so I was afraid. During gym class I would hide in the bathroom and cry once a teacher had found me. The boys would observe.“One of these things is not like the other.” In time I would learn to fit in, however, you can only hide things so well when you're young before they start to show. The boys would react...





2) The Match





“When you hold a knife to someones throat, make sure you use enough pressure to affirm your conviction, but not so much as to actually follow through. The trick is to only appear ruthless, as to be perceived as weak makes you a victim-- and victims get bullied.”



By my junior year of high-school I had been transferred in and out of five different schools. I was accustomed to the fact that by removing me from the equation no institution had to confront their homophobic underbellies. Years passed and I had been berated, jumped, or otherwise chased out of every school I attended. After awhile, any threatening gesture one could conjure in my direction was met with dead eyes. From the treachery that once burned me I had become my own inferno of cruelty and tricks. I was the bully-- the worst kind. I was astounded how responsive the world became to my needs once my tears turned into clenched fists. Of course, I was still the effeminate social-butterfly-- but I had clipped his wings. I learned that there is a bridge between self-expression and societal acceptance, and the raging current that divides it is ignorance. That the appearance of things are so often held in higher regard than their content. That the value of a person is measured in material and a body count. I took these lessons and manifested an image. The most disturbing part about my transformation is that I assimilated everything I despised-- and it made me grossly popular. I got myself into a lot of trouble over the years that would follow, but as I got older, I stopped getting arrested as often. A few adults had regularly guided me from harm, and by some chance and a lot of luck-- there had been just enough good influence in my life. I was stopped from being the criminal I was bent on becoming.



3) Ashes



“There are two types of dogs in the world-- laps and strays. One sleeks around in the rain wondering where his next meal is coming from in exchange for his authenticity. The other is kept on a very short leash for a bone a day. I ask myself, which dog am I?”  



One's youth doesn't really come to an end, rather, there comes a time when you're expected to leave it behind. In my age I think about this. Much like high-school, in adulthood we're expected to maintain some sort of image, fit in to the confines of society, and blend in. The same herd-mentality which drove me to deny my authenticity the first time, is once again asking me to sacrifice my truths. We have changed the scenery but not the situation. The world is a wasteland for the individual. It will leave you cut, bruised and isolated. But when you finally come across someone or someplace who has fought your fight, and accepts you for all that you are, it will have been worth it in the end. And the pathetic wings of that damaged butterfly still beat inside of me, struggling to escape, reminding me to never abandon that which we're being conditioned to forget.

-z0