The boy who clicks off the light, reads on the couch, to let sleep consume me-- or who reads beside me, metal-frames dipping low
while his eyes pour over the page.

The boy who tucks me in, acquiescing the blanket softer than peach fuzz-- like the ambrosial peaches his grandmother gifted him in the winter and he shared sweet.

The boy who always makes sure to kiss me good-bye
and fills the room with jazzy notes-- because they represent me,
though he never liked jazz much at all before.

The boy who asked me to wake him if I go somewhere because he'd prefer me to remain beside him, but he understands I have things I need to do, so he cannot always wake beside me,
a weight he can handle.

It does not match the boy who told me he does not love me,
though he likes me, and I am haunted by hollow translations
that force me to delicately dance around a swear word in the
English language like "love".

It does not match the boy who said we wouldn't have much of a relationship without ***, and I am haunted by uncertainties of my convenience that force me to stumble with the hope that our
past does not define our present.

How I feel about you, through my actions, through my words, are truer than any logic, but that might not matter
because the boy does not want to hear words that have
a weight greater than he can handle.

body parts -
the only thing separating us.
after dating,
she's crushed i'm gay.
after talking every day,
i'm crushed realizing
i never saw her that way.

several months ago, i wrote about love.
how i thought it would be fire, sunlight, a single candle in an empty room.
i built a girl to put all my love into so i had a way to let it out,
but i had never loved then, and now i have.

i love a girl with short hair and dark eyes who is allergic to all my favourite foods,
and she made me realise that loving was easier than i feared.
i love her without hesitation, without waiting, without restraint.
but when she loved me back i was afraid. i'm afraid now.

because what happens when - not if- she wakes up and sees me as i do?
she sees she was wrong, and i am not warm or kind or anything she thinks of me.
and a voice whispers above the fear that maybe she's right, and i am wrong.
if she does not see how awful i am, how awful could i really be?

she thinks i am good to her because i am good. but its not true.
i love her because of her, not myself.
i am good for her because i want her to be happy with me, and i want to deserve the esteem she holds me in.

and in the core of my heart i know i'm just scrambling for reasons to ruin things,
because i'm happy in a way i've never been before.
and i hold onto her like i am afraid she'll vanish once my brain stops screaming at me.
i wonder how she can look at me and not be repelled like i am.

but i don't think i would hate myself if i were somebody else.
if i was a stranger, what would i think?
the truth is, i don't think I'm a bad person.
i think i am loved and that terrifies me.
because what have i done to deserve it?
it cannot be enough.

i was used to dealing with myself at my worst,
to licking my wounds like a cat in silence
but now she is here and determined to stay
and i want her to.
so if she wants to see everything i will let her,
and the rest is her choice to make

your skin on mine;
we lie here

with fingers interlaced
and our eyes locked
then with legs intertwined
and my head cocked
in the crook of your neck

here is where i feel safest;
my skin on yours

im still a kid
rambling on and on
about the ways of the moths
******* im a freak
and i just wanna scream
i like pretty colors and pretty girls
in baggy sweaters and silly earrings
i just wanna be me
and let her love that me
i wanna laugh with her and drink peach tea
i wanna spend every night
laughing at her and blushing like mad
i wanna go places, and hold her hand the whole way
me in all my glamorous dramatics
and her quietly tolerating me
i wanna be her big dumb baby
and call her my darling girl

At this point, I'm surprised I manage to wake up,
when every night is plagued with dreams of you,
caressing my fragile body, and then plunging into it like it doesn't mean two ***** to you.
Every night it's the same dream, and I wake up smelling of sweat,
but it's not the same as yours, an aroma that haunts me even in my sleep.
See, when a man like me desires,
he desires with more than just his heart and mind.
He desires with his nose, his lips, his hands and his tongue,
his eyes, his ears, and with the tips of his toes.
Not unlike the fantastic houses we used to build between periods.
Not unlike the make-believe we used to play during recess.
So, my friend, let's make-believe one last time:
I'll pretend to be a woman,
and you'll pretend to be in love,
and I'll finally find myself in your warm embrace.

I didn't know what her eyes
usually told others
but right then
they were whispering a secret
she leaned in to give it away
and I leaned in to say "I know"