Some mornings,
the world is unremarkable
smoke bleeds into an indifferent sky,
sand burns gold under an unrelenting sun
the mundane hums its lullaby,
futility settles under the flesh
like a second spine.

Life is
clawing at the seams of society
and convincing yourself
you're leaving a rip,
following roads that promise no end,
mistaking recklessness for revolt,
and revolt for meaning.

There is too much wiring in the skull.
Too many knots to untangle in a single lifetime-
taught to love life
before grasping the
absurdity of being alive.
longing, ruin,
hunger, belief,
every pursuit an ******
for minds too sentient
to sit still in the void.

Ricocheting between too much
and just enough,
too many,
too alike,
each thread
vanishing into the loom
small enough
to unravel nothing at all.

i know she told you she loves you
i see it in the shimmer of your eyes.
you think of
running your hands through her hair
and galaxies start expanding
in your pupils
i know this because
i wore that same look
when i thought of you,
when i traded my mind for a brothel,
bartered pieces of my soul
to fit inside your mold

you come to me,
your voice laced with reverence,
and then tell me how beautiful she is
when I'm still intoxicated by that
fleeting summer day
you called me by the same

see, i could fracture myself and
reshape my whole body,
rewire the circuits in my brain and
become a composite
of everyone you’ve ever loved
but i could never
be new to you again.
i know you crave what’s untouched,
and I'm starting to decay.

if i could just twist back time
i wouldn’t taste your love again,
but stand outside this brothel,
neon lights flickering like dying stars,
and drag myself away

I've always known-
if it had been different,
if you ever had been capable
of loving me the way
i broke myself to deserve
i wouldn’t have reduced myself to dust
for a molecule of your affection

i was just a number.
i think she is too.
but if she’s the one who remakes you,
while I’m left here
alone in this labyrinthine hell-house,
I’ll sink into
the darkest caverns of myself.

At the age of twelve, I first stumbled upon
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘯𝘦 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬.
Within the pages of her sanctum, she confessed
an innocent curiosity that defied
society’s paradigms of sexuality.
It was quite subtle,
yet it indelibly etched itself into my mind.

It was my first glimpse into queerness,
and a catalyst for my journey
of learning how to conceal it.

I swallowed the reveries that followed,
tucking them away within the alcoves of my mind.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯.
Taught to
sew my mouth shut
and call it discipline,
not to get angry
for rage is unflattering on a
𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 like me.

This mouth is wallpaper.
𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀?