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...

step-mother cried today.
her dear baby’s gone away—
drove down that sticky-sweet and bubbling mess
by pretty men and their perfect dress,
with blinding smiles and a made-up face,
their whispered words all carefully placed
to drown him in that murky sea;
to push his head beneath the boiling depths
and silence all our final pleas.

and after all her pain and bleeding,
the birthing screams and angel's oath—
she could not **** either,
why should he get to love both?

step-father sighed today.
who led his child astray?
who filled his little head with sickly lies
of milky sweets and buzzing flies,
with selfish lusts and fleshly desires,
crawling skin and ashen-wax fires,
all leading him toward the flames,
him screaming out with teeth sunk in his shoulder,
lost in all the pleasured pains.

and when the moment has blown past us,
and the rains come flooding in—
he drowned the whole world once;
he surely could do it again.

step-brother died today.
all smelling of decay—
two thousand years of blood and pain and rot,
of pretty words and evil thoughts,
the tangling vines haloed all round his head,
the circling crows all gorging the bread
that's dripping down his broken spine
and spilling from that ruined brain,
his body stained with water, blood and wine.

and when the spike had pierced his body,
would his spirit be released?
the wounds healed three days later;
was it worth it in the least?


but my lover smiled today—
o holy family, everything will be okay.

ignoring who i am is almost worst than hating who i am

i laid bare before you, heart slipped on the hardwood floor
you became blind

i screamed vows in your ear, words scattered on the couch
you became deaf

i beggingly shook your shoulders, history spilled on the bed
you became paralyzed

you prayed
i sinned

this was not a choice

please respond
just please
please
...please

i’d rather have you hate me

I loved you but not in the way where
Your body becomes an ocean under my palm
And your tongue becomes the treasure I have to find
And your hands become the gasp of air before I drown in your moans

I loved you but
Your body has no cave to dive into who’s walls are filled with the wetness of the ocean breeze from your breath on my neck
And your chest has no curves like crystals on the sea floor I swim to just to hold them
And you have no gills that protect the entrance in which you breathe life from
           No gills in which you must rub the right direction

I loved you but you are the man on Earth and I belong with the mermaids under the sea

There's a huge bean bag in the corner
the color of rusted tree
and a white painted outline to hold two drawers
of colorful condoms next to the Keurig Machine.
Three circular winded fanciful lights strung above,
shedding semicircular splotches on the walls.
Looking out on the Brooklyn Bridge in the 1893
painted on in black and grey haunts.
There's a magnetic pillar to the left of the too-deep chairs
that at least are comfortable,
but no one has legs that long.
A magazine rack to the right lends a variety of color, from
Love Match to Lavender, it's a mismatch island.
Smells like plastic and a cold air, with a hint of college sweat.
And there's the squeaky roller chair full of business textbooks and drawings of pigeons and bitten fingernails and arms that lead to the edges of the paper.
Masked with worn All Star sketchers and three clocks ticking,
Long labored skies and horcruxes gathered round the edges.
Yet somehow with all the oddities combined,
it's safe and sound under the flag including.

The things we do
that we can’t do
in public
excites me.

Kiss
Hold hands
Embrace -

I thought
our consciousness
was supposed
to tell us
we are alive,
we are human.

But why does
it stops us
from doing things
others can?

We are different;

In public,
we are private
In private
we are public.

Who’s to blame?-

Never mind.

I love you,
And that’s all that matters.