I guess this is my first.
It's really just a poem.
A few words
Arranged into a few lines
With a few spaces and dots and curly things that split our words into pieces...

Just my first.

No one really likes firsts, do they?
Not for school, at least,
Or for taking out the trash
Or forcing your legs to throw your body into the swelling body of water beneath you.
So, honestly,
I can't blame your for hating it.

Then again, you could love it.
After all, firsts are good for races.
They're also good for test scores.
And, if I'm remembering correctly, I know a set of twins that get into plenty of arguments about who should have come first.

So, yea, firsts can be good.

They're good for the presidents.
And the roosters.

Firsts are also pretty good for travelers.
I mean, if there were no firsts, how would travelers ever have anywhere new to go?

However, I don't really know how people feel about firsts in sickness.
Or death.
That could also be a bad one.

Well, anyway.
Here I am.
With a poem.
My first poem.
And, as we have found out here, firsts are very easy to love.
And they're very easy to hate.
And they're also very easy to ignore.

But I guess it doesn't really matter now, does it?
Because, what'll happen when my second comes along?

The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.

Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.

Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.

Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop  
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.

I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.

At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;

The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.

This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood.

Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.

The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.

there are 2 different kinds of lovers.
the first;
they love until their hearts bleed out.
the second;
they let the other person put in the effort and time and enjoy it.

the first usually fall for the second.

it would be amazing for two firsts, or two seconds to find each other.

never, it seems is this the case.

there are those who come right out and say they like you...... firsts.
there are those who hide behind moving vans and run from you in crowded rooms...... seconds
there are those afraid of breaking hearts......firsts
there are those afraid of getting theirs broken......seconds.
there are those who find no reason to stay......firsts
there are those who find no reason to leave......seconds

the world is divided between firsts and seconds.

why must the firsts fall for the seconds?

who ever truly taught us how to love?

I remember when I saw you
for the first time years ago
You brushed me off without a glance
I thought "that's someone I should know"

Time went by and walls came down
I softened your demeanor
It took some work, but I won out
Because, hell...you couldn't get much meaner

A first is always tougher
No matter what it is you do
But, each first is well worth living
If I can have my first with you

A few months in another first
You met my folks and friends
when I brought you to that birthday do
The one I wished would never end

You took your time and wore me down
Another first came soon
I remember how your body shone
All sweaty 'neath the moon

A first is always tougher
No matter what it is you do
But, each first is well worth living
If I can have my first with you

We married six months after that
In a year our first was born
I can't remember which one cried the most
You, or our baby, just new born

Our first house came, we bought a dog
Things were off and at full speed
But with all of our achievements
You were the one thing I'd still need

A first is always tougher
No matter what it is you do
But, each first is well worth living
If I can have my first with you

We opened up our business
The first of many more to come
It wasn't that successful
but it was still our number one

I remember that day's phone call
The doctor said "I've bad news for you"
He told me of the tumour
I'd passed first and was stage two

Through radiation and my chemo
You were the one who was always there
I remember when you came in
And you had shaved off all your hair

A first is always tougher
No matter what it is you do
But, each first is well worth living
If I can have my first with you

I've been gone now for a while
I know it's tough, but I'm around
I can see you and our child
Even though I'm in the ground

There'll be more firsts now together
I know it just won't be the same
But, still it's firsts and your'e together
Like when we first played out this game

A first is always tougher
Even though it's not with me
But, each first is well worth living
Just make it the best that it can be

Firsts are important, if you make them
We didn't, well we did but we didn't.
No regrets though.

Like young birds trying out their wings.

There was sometimes no camera or film,
some times little cash or a lost roll of film,
to mark a moment or a special day,
so we didn't.

Oh we did, make happy and we smiled
and laughed as firsts were, the first time
after all.

There was walking and talking which then became
running and now they have wings and fly.

I did not take pen and paper and write down the moment
with colourful description and names of all who were there,
I did not make the time, to be fair.

We still have no regrets that would be a first
if, we did.

They all grew up fine and they will now
know I am proud of who they have become
(if they did not know before, that would also be a first)
and how they got to where they are and did so by being
who God meant them to be, with some help
and guidance from her and me.

Oh how they soar!

And love, they know love, I hope that it would not
be a first, to know that they are loved, from first
time we found womb for them and for all time.

As they grew from younger to older, sometimes
every day it seemed that there was some first or other,
and now it is I who have firsts, my first daughter in law,
married to one son, and a first grandchild from our daughter
in the middle, and as for son number two, everyday is a first
and for him some things have not changed,
still no regrets,
even though the nest echoes from time to time to time.

Are firsts important?

I think that they are.

They mark a moment of courage

A moment of faith

A change

An experience that can shape

Your whole world view

You know I waited till 22

To change my mind

On being alone

Only to find

I would have waited

22 years more

Not to discover

What being alone

In that sense

Actually meant

And that's the truth of a bad day


But just how important are firsts really?

Firsts do not mean best necessarily

Firsts form a starting point

And once you start you may as well carry on

They're A foundation to build upon

A lesson to learn from

You know I waited till 22

To take risks, to raise the stakes

That meant I would make mistakes

Only to find

I wish I hadn't waited 22 years

When I saw how much progress can be generated

When you face your fears

All of which I wouldn't have discovered

*If I had continued to run away

GENERATION EQUALITY

It is equality when you work with her.
It is equality when she leads the team.
It is equality to see her, think her and call her the boss.
It is equality when she promotes her accomplishments.

It is equality to pay her the same as him for the same job.
It is for sure equality when you give her credit for that brilliant idea.
It is totally equality to admit she is more competent so she gets the job.
It is equality when she has an opinion and is confident to make it known.

It is equality when deciding for herself is norm.
It is equality when bias and stereotypes no longer define her.
It is equality when her achievements are no longer firsts.
It is equality when she is well represented in critical areas of concern.

It is definitely equality to treat her with respect and dignity.
It is absolutely equality to fight alongside her for peace and justice.
It is real equality to be her allie, support her future openly.
It is surely equality for her to reclaim and take up spaces.

Not just a woman, not just a girl, not just because she is your mother or wife,
Not just as your sister or your aunty, not just because she is your daughter,
But as the very evident, clear as day Human that she is in this generation and
Generations more to come.

An integral part of a collective whole, we all need to better uphold.  
Each one responsible, Each one acting consciously, Each one shaping up,
A generation for equality.

Belema .S. Ekine
belemascribbles

It's true that I never really knew you.
But I did love you
In a certain, breathless way.
In a hushed way.
I was very small, then. And very sad.
And I looked out on a great, green, vivid world,
And I was afraid, even, to whisper into it
As if my breath would push the color out.
I watched. I noticed.
I perched on the edge of myself,
On the line between me
And the air around me,
Too cautious to slip into either fully.
I was used to looking.
I was used to being a shadow, and I enjoyed it.
I thought I enjoyed it.

The day I met you, you looked back at me.
You were the first.
Imagine that- all those years, and you were the first person
To wonder what it was like behind my eyes
Enough to really look into them.

I could have loved you
Just for that
And maybe I did, originally.
I remember small things, small wakings-up,
Tiny moments that made me realize who I was.
I never lived inside myself before that year.
When I met you I discovered
That I had hands
That when the breeze was warm
I felt it
That my fingers could read the world I so loved to look at-
Change it
Mold it,
Have it.
I discovered that maybe I didn't have to exist alone
And for that knowledge
I must bitterly thank you,
For ever since then I have craved to be held,
Every second
And it has been wonderful and terrible.

I remember snapshots of that time.

The first time, when you looked at me, when you stood close to me
And I was so surprised that I forgot to recoil
And I discovered that I didn't want to.
Your eyes,
Pale and warm, a clear grey-blue, sparkling with mischief,
And what was behind them-
Pain, fear, love, wit and imagination.
You.

I didn't know you,
But I saw you.
I was looking. I always look.
I rarely see anything I wish I could write poetry about.
When I do, it keeps on coming, even years later.
Go figure.

I remember going home and laying awake in the dark
And your face wouldn't leave my mind.
You were leaving within the week,
And I didn't want to forget it, somehow.
I didn't know what made me want to look at you.
Thinking of you-
The curtain of dark hair you hid beneath a hat,
Your softly freckled skin,
Your low, husky voice that always made my head turn
As if everyone else was just background noise.
Maybe it was the way your lips would quirk up in a half smile
Whenever you said something witty and knew it.
(I loved that you knew it.)
Somehow the sum-total of you
Stuck with me and wouldn't leave.
I'd met handsome men.
I'd met beautiful women.
I'd met many people, by then,
But none I'd wanted to know quite like I wanted to know you.

It had never occurred to me
Before that summer
That I would ever want to kiss anybody.
When I discovered that I wanted to kiss you...
I didn't know what to do.
So I said nothing.
Did nothing.
I passionately looked at you
As you told your mesmerizing stories and laughed and looked elsewhere.
I didn't mind.

That was the year
Two weeks later
That I rolled over in bed and asked my best friend to kiss me.
That was the year I discovered why I'd never fantasized a white wedding
(It wasn't legal yet.)

In the years after, I searched for you.
Sometimes I found you.
Sometimes
I couldn't stop telling you you were beautiful.
Sometimes I felt close to you
And my heart would race.
Sometimes you chose a boy
Over my small, dainty face and my eyelashes and my high heeled boots
And that was the first time I felt
The now familiar aching shame- the fear
That maybe that would always happen.
The fear I still grapple with, if I am to be honest.

Still, there were moments when you and I were close, and I treasured them.
Once, I asked you for a hug
And you pulled me down onto the bed beside you
And that was the first time
I ever felt my stomach fall through my feet
In a delicious way,
In a thrilling way.
All I did was hug you,
And looked at your soft, brown eyelashes
Casting shadows down your cheeks.
And then somebody walked in and the moment was over
But I never quite forgot it.

You were kind to me.
You were kind to me in a way I hadn't experienced before,
And I wanted to make you smile.

I remember the day you told us why you wore shorts at the pool.
I remember the white hashmarks shining in the sun
All the way up your thighs.
I remember I thought a thousand things in that second.
I wanted to tell you that you didn't have to hide them.
I wanted to show you that you were beautiful.
I've kissed scars since then, you know.
Because of that moment, I've kissed scars before I've kissed lips.
I've left people loved instead of wounded.
If I'd have let myself think such things about people back then,
I'd have wanted to touch those long-healed cuts with my fingertips,
Feel the smooth hills and valleys of a chaotic heart
Made damaged flesh.
I'd have wanted to kiss them, too, like I did to different skin-
Softly and without lust, looking into the eyes that witnessed their creation.
It was a very, very personal thought. A very, very private longing.
So confusing that I locked it up and didn't think of it for years to come.
And when I did once more,
I was raising a pale white wrist to my lips, tracing a wax-white pattern of healed hatred with soft kisses
And I saw what I wanted to see in the surprised, vulnerable brown eyes I was looking into.
That moment for her
Was your fault.

I remember when I realized why you had such trouble eating.
I never did hear all the details.
I couldn't presume to ask.
All I did was watch you walk away from the table,
Burning with the desire to comfort you
But
I was so used to looking
And not touching
And so I watched you go
And thought of you all night.

It rained a lot, those years.
It never seems to rain like that anymore.
Whenever I saw you it seemed to rain at least once,
The sky turning the same grey blue as your eyes when you were thinking
And thought nobody was looking
And cracking open with a rush of rain and lightning and the sweet, low rumble of thunder crackling through the hot clouds high above.
The holes in the road would fill with water
And the whole place would become a river.
It was so free.
Somehow I began to think of you whenever it rained.

I'm almost sure it was your eyes. They were so deep and stormy, sometimes.
Sometimes they were bright blue, like those summer days when the clouds skip along the sky, pushed by warm winds and shattered by sunlight.
Sometimes they looked very, very pale, like the tide when it folds up in satiny layers against the sand.
I always felt a little strange, looking at your eyes like I did.
I couldn't stop.
That was probably why I rarely touched you.
I was afraid that I was already invading, already pushing too much
To see what was inside of you.

I remember listening to you learn lines late at night,
The way your voice would rise and fall,
And I didn't even know why I was listening-
It just pulled me in, a sound I was partial to,
A tone I wanted to feel on my skin.

I remember tagging along for countless adventures,
Making up excuses to be here or there that I knew you'd be
Just so that I could be a bit closer.
I didn't have an end game.
Didn't have a goal.
I wasn't me enough yet. I acted from fascination.
I wanted to stand near you and watch you be.

I have the most vivid memory of you taking off running
One hot, hot summer day
Into a field of tall grass,
Your laughs and shouts echoing further away
And sometimes I'd see your pale arms stretch above the wildflowers and underbrush,
Waving a gauzy net after the white butterflies that rode the sunbeams.
What a happy field that was.
I didn't run.
I watched.
I always watched.
But I remember that the smile that touched my face
Filled my bones.

I remember when you cut your hair
And I could finally see your face in full
And I wanted to photograph it
In black and white
And maybe catch the way your laughter lived in your gaze.

That was when
You started to fade away.
I saw you less,
And you saw me... much less.
Perhaps I should have let you turn away
And never said a thing,
But
You were the first thing I ever really wanted
Enough to reach for in any way.
I spoke, and you heard me.
And even though you pretended you didn't
It was still the first time
I ever shouted.

Now... now I'm not sure what I think of you
Or what
You think of me.
But I know what you were when I knew you
And I love that girl
And that girl
Created much of what I love about who I am.
And most of the time
I think she grew up.
Found a man, found a life, found a place.
Most of the time I think it's okay that we don't talk
Because you probably aren't her anymore.
I wish I could say
I thought I'd grow up like that and leave my skin behind
But
I am the girl who looked at you back then.
And I have been her ever since,
Only added to.
I know I will never outgrow how I love,
Who I love,
Whatever woke up when I first realized how I felt about you.
I will only learn to wield it.

Sometimes I wish I knew you now.
Sometimes I wish I'd known you then.
Just because... look at all the firsts you were, to me,
And for years into knowing you
I didn't even know your real name.
Imagine if you'd let me in, how we could have changed each other.
I wonder who I'd be
If I'd done more than just watch you silently and smile.

What I learned
From years of gazing at you across picnic tables and bunk beds is that
You can love somebody you don't know.
You can give to someone you haven't taken from.
And you can be changed by someone who never even touched you.
And I'd like you to know that.
And I'd like to remind you
That you never quite know who out there
Is quietly writing you poetry.

Life is full of them. When you're growing up, they're so frequent -
you're always looking forward to a new one.
As you grow older, that excitement gives way to regret and sometimes fear.
Things you haven't yet done or experienced;
things you have yet to fail at - things you may never get the chance to enjoy.
I've had a few firsts this past year, as I decided to finally let go of that fear I was clinging to for so long.
And it is such a relief -
to find that you're not made of porcelain,
emotionally or physically;
that your life isn't on the verge of going up in flames,
or crumbling to bits at the slightest provocation.
You are stronger and so is the fabric of the life you have woven -
it can withstand a few tremors, harsh waves, missteps, falls, crashes, burns.

If you don't have the scars to prove it, did it really happen?
You've got to let life mark you, not all scars are bad,
some make killer tattoos..

It's been us for a while
It's been us for years
We were just held back
But now we have no fears

There's nothing in our way
With each other, we spend our time
Hanging out all day
Not seeing each other is a crime

We have so many firsts yet to experience
I can't wait to try them all
With the one I am meant for
I have already begun to fall

Throughout my days
I am so uneasy
But when you hold my hand
Everything feels calm and breezy

It's like a light breeze
On a scorching hot day
You soothe me, and I feel calm
My lap is where you lay

I love being close to you
I wouldn't ever turn back
We were meant to be more
It was the us we always did lack

You're my everything
You're my fate
You're my joy
My soulmate

Alot has happend in my bed...

A few firsts,
Like the first time I slept with someone, and the first time I told someone I loved them.
Two different boys if you can belive.

It's where I collapse after being away.

It's the home of my childhood teddy.

Where my nightmares take refuge.

Where I take cat nap... with my cat.

I've lay awake sobbing at sad movies, only half because of the movie.

I've slept alone, in someone's arms, and not at all.

Stayed awake making up a million different scenarios, thinking about the universe

To an outsider it's just a bed.

To me it's a life time of memories.

When its emerald eye glimmers in the shadow of the dusty shelf above
I pause,
I sense a presense.

It is not unlike me to attribute human characteristics to inanimate objects.
Give them names and nicknames and quirky character traits based on how their forms bend.

In the flickering lights of a broke wicken sanctuary though, I do not do it out of habit.

I feel it and stare it back down and see my own reflection in the cracked gems that once were a soul.

A gaudy skull.

The kind you see in home video Indiana Jones tributes,
with hats stolen from someone’s parents,
and jackets stolen from someone else’s elder siblings,
and ketchup for blood.

The kind your quirky local manic pixie dream girl uses to hold incense.

The kind I’m about to waste my money on because I’m an adult now and I can use my millennial minimum wage however I want.

I do not become aware of the possessed nature of my new buddy until I take it back home and hear it snicker in the middle of the night.

I know it is the skull, for my roommate is not one to snicker.

(He chuckles when he’s hiding an opinion and has a villainous laugh when it’s coming from a place of sincerity, but that’s beside the point)

I know it’s laughing at me.
I know this for a fact.

It takes me three more nights to call it out on it because I’ve never been confronted with the issue of standing up to a haunted antique I took home from a secondhand shop, possibly owned by satan’s offspring.
But I’m twenty-one years old and still experiencing some firsts, I suppose.

The gaudy skull is exceptionally snarky.
In a way none of my named plants ever were.
Not even Gerard.

He comes for me for the garbage on the floor and the dust on the windowsill on which he’s propped up, and then later for my poor taste in chore-doing music.

I never ask for its name because I know for a fact he’ll make a game out of it
and I am not in the mood for entertaining ghosts.

I come to realise it all on my own a couple of weeks later.
Once the snark starts to wear off,
and domesticity settles in,
and shared quiet becomes comforting,
despite the circumstances.

It is Judas.

I know this for a fact.

You do not understand the extent to which I am certain that it is Judas.
I have never been so aware of someone’s origins in my entire life.
I bought this creepy item and it is now in my room and I’m developing a weird attachment to it and maybe occasionally use it as a paper-weight and it is Judas.

I feel it in my heart and know it inside of my skull that might be standing on someone else’s touchscreen windowsill
two thousand years in the future,
jade stones for eyes even though I specifically requested amber,
but you get ****** over by bureaucracy even after death.

How do I know it is Judas?

Because I feel him stare at me like he wants to kiss me late at night and sense him plotting my betrayal early morning.

I know it is that, for a fact, because I’ve felt this exact sensation before.

My **** edgy room decor is Judas.

I try to get him to admit it himself by talking of past lovers and reading aloud the surprising number of Jesus metaphor poems I have in my room.
I hate Jesus metaphors, but I do it for that sweet sensation of seeing someone trying to dodge the inevitable once it’s coming at them like a mule through Rome piloted by the son of god.

I know he’ll cave eventually and tell me
and I know it’ll be the same caliber of glorious news as Jesus coming out of his own cave of burial,
resurrected and preaching winning.
I know I’ll win.

And I think to myself that maybe I am in the mood to entertain and just haven’t found the right outlet yet.
Maybe history’s most infamous apostle is It.
The original sinner and the original rebel.

(I’m aware it’s technically Cain, the jealousy-ridden son of Adam and Eve, but I only ever count the gays)

Judas and I have bonded.

And I can tell he’s on the verge of telling me his dark and twisted backstory. Again, I have felt this sensation before.

And when it happens, we can talk
about what it’s like being demonised by the one you love
and being the odd one out in your devotee friend group, even though you eat bread and drink wine and worship metaphor just like them.
And how patriarchal institutions distort history to pedal the same tired spiel of everything having a place and everything being there for a reason.

But we both know that isn’t true
because neither of us feel like part of god’s plan or created in anyone’s image.

And we can listen to sad music about wanting to kiss the wrong people together.

And that’s all I ever wanted from a friendship.

the chill of a metal bench soaks into my skin,
fibers of denim unconcealing
can you see my bones?
hoarse and quiet and barely there,
your voice is a ghost
the residue of something that once lived and is no longer
there.

high fives, fist bumps, live long and prosper:
thin hands that have seen it all
all except the warmth of yours
of a link that i never expected
to feel, or to feel so
empty

knees, rough and bruised from kneeling
from sitting in uncomfortable positions
from leaning over in the emptiness of a house haunted
by someone's ghost,
though if it's hers or yours or mine
no one can say.

the firsts are the only ones we count:
lips that linger,
brushing dust and stellar remains
on the lifeless collar of this lifeless boy.

I am still
In deep thought-
Wondering, how easy I’ve let you slipped
From my hands
And from my heart

--

Let’s take a step back
And recount the moments
Recollect the memories
Reminisce the good old days
And reassess this overnight decision I’ve impulsively taken

Let’s take a few more steps back
And remember the first time I met you
Back in high school
The first time I said hi
And thought you were cute

You were a plethora of my firsts
The first boy bestfriend I’ve ever had
The first boy to ever ask me out on dates
The first boy to talk to me on a daily basis
The first boy I ever liked…. Who actually liked me back

Undoubtedly,
You were my first love

I thought I loved you like I’d never love anyone else
I told you everything
Wrecked these walls I’ve sheltered from for so long
Just to hand you this little fragile heart of mine
Through the cracked linoleum and the broken glass windows
I gave you a golden ticket and an aerial view
To my world

And after two years,
In the end,
You did decide to return the favour
You trusted me enough
To let me enter this mystical world of yours
These two dimensions you seem to always get lost in
Those two roads diverged in a wood
That you can never seem to wrap your head around
and choose

As I write this,
I start to realise why and how I stopped loving you

I think I got tired
Of trying to pull you up
As you let yourself drown in the seas
of your undecided thoughts

I stopped loving you
The moment you say “I’m going to change”
But the next day you woke up
You put on the same old clothes
You took the same route
To the place that led you exactly back to where you once were

I got sick of
Saying the same things
Over and over again
Asking you to change
Only to expect nothing in return

Truth be told
As similar as we are as people
We live in worlds too distant apart
Your world is too foreign for me, too fast and scary
Whereas my world is too small and tightly guarded, all child’s play

As much as I’d want to love you
I can’t seem to do so
And if I could, I'd say this a million times to you

I truly am sorry.

Time Can ****...

Time Can Save...

Time Can Heal Those Cuts And Scrapes...

But Time Is A Fickle Thing When It Comes To The Heart.

Those Moments In Time That Can Change The Pace.

Time flies In These Short Moments of Life.

Your First Kiss...

Your First Date...

Your First Love...

There are many Firsts in Life.

There is no 2ND Firsts.

These Decisions you make in Life are short.

But its Moments In Time where you make mistakes.

You make bad decisions.

You said something you regret.

Did it hurt?

Did you suffer?

At that point in your life, maybe it did.

But this isn't the end for you my dear.

This is the Time you Wake Up.

You realize and Accept the Wrongs You Have Done.

Sometimes, you have to Say Yes or No.

To bandage up those Cuts and Scrapes.

To Say Your Sorry...

To Apologize...

And To Acknowledge the People who Didn't Give Up On You.

To say Thank You To Those Who Stayed and Waited.

Who Said "Hello", "I Miss You", And "I Love You"

So Right The Wrongs...

And Change Yourself Before You Try To Change Others.

It may be slow...

Why?

Because It takes Time...

LIVE those moments that make you feel ALIVE.

FIGHT for what YOU LOVE.

LOVE the people who make you SMILE.

And LAUGH at DEATH because YOU ARE NOT AFRAID.

Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return

a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.

Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.

Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.

"Have you had any firsts with me at all?" I ask, breath catching and a sadness coming over me as I realize there's not one thing unique about me.

The silence after my question spreads out and latches onto my heart, concreting the idea that I'm nothing special after all.

You flounder, trying to come up with something, anything, but you have not one occasion to offer me.

You possess so very many of my firsts, and I felt there was something important in the act of giving them to you.

But my sweetest memories are quickly tainted by the realization that many others before me gifted you with the same, their own firsts.

And I can't help but feel *****, used, and alone. For a while there, I really thought I was special.

What a joke.

We go through life
ticking off a metaphorical
list of firsts;
first words
first steps
first school
first friends
first love
first kiss
first heartbreak

so on and we go
ticking off item after item
until all our firsts
become our lasts.

the body of this poem is about two bodies, sometimes poetic things are ***** and sometimes ***** things are poetic things under the dirt of what i'd been taught my whole life about my virginity. i was told that if i lost it i wouldnt be able to find it again. i was not told about a boy, tall and skinny and blonde, blue-gray eyes, i was not told that i would kiss him, i was not told that my kiss would be his first. i didnt know at the time that summer would collapse into one moment, i could never have guessed that two crazy transgender boys could coincide with virginity as strongly as we pressed our bodies together. i was fourteen years old and my body was a choppy pencil sketch of anorexia and rib damage, of breast tissue and scar tissue, of anxiety and hipbones. he was fifteen years old and to me he was beautiful, everything strange and weird in our brains was erased and forgotten, fogged up with our heavy breathing. i am wrapped up in firsts and lasts and the first time was not entirely the world-shattering that it was built up to be, we were built up, and then i forget why we stopped. but we stopped. but we stopped being far apart and afraid to tell each other how close we wished we were. we learned how to commit heavy sins, the kind that make you feel good. we learned that our relationship is textbook unhealthy, but unhealthy people means unhealthy partners means unhealthy- means *******, we are trying our best and *******, this is what love means. this tangle of fingers. we learned that we have to not only have secrets but become them. we didnt have to be taught what it feels like to need someone. we didnt need to learn how it tastes to be absolutely sure of something.
my entire life i was taught that i should save myself for a man, but instead i let go of myself and loved a boy.

I want to know I made you smile.
If I could cause such beauty,
life would mean more for a moment.

Why don't smiles last?
Why does the heartbeat slow, eventually?
And can't two people simply enjoy one another's company--
be be here for once, for now, together, right here and just be warm?
Without expectation, just happy.
No hopes, no unstated desires, just togetherness,
and those conversations one has lying on roofs, looking into the stars, on the hood of your car,
looking out on the moonlight stretched in shadows over a lake's rippling surface,
you know in the movies,
but when you actually do it it's better than any movie no matter who you're with or what temperature it is outside, or how many mosquitos are swarming, or what the radio is playing.
And notes written in pencil.
Pens run out of ink.
But why did we...
Why have we...
Why are we not writing anymore?
Can we drag the dry pen down the pages, forever, until paper rips under the pressure?
The story is etched into me.
Let's never stop telling the story.

Anyway, like I said, I want to know I made you smile
so we need to speak of many things.
So that if you want to know you made me smile,
we can know exactly where those smiles came from,
what it meant...
what it means for them
to have meant that
to
us.

Secrets lap at the edge of pouted lips
Pooling below the tongue, it sits all wrong
Fistfuls of curls in red polished fingers and a cracked bottle grazing at the wayside
Silence so soaked in sweat it hardly admits it's guilt
Cough drops held at the back of throats and little pinched baby thumbs pressed in balled up fists
Rough cotton, cool linen
Heaven coiled around flesh, around flesh, around flesh
Around breath, after breath, after breath.

You were always the type for hit it and quit it, i don't know why i thought this time would be any different.
I caused you a lot of stress,
and you stayed ******* with my head
But eventually you wore me down and i just gave in.
I experienced so many firsts with you, all in the same two hour time frame
But once i gave my virginity to you, you stopped replying to my messages.
It wasn't a big deal to me, i just wish you'd be real with me.
This message has been on 'read' since the day that it happened, when all i was asking was if you'd want it to happen again.
It was a fun time tho, so thanks for that i suppose.  
I just wish you'd stop being such a ******* head **** and let me know what your true intentions are.

we had a lot of firsts together,
and i'll have a lot more,
but our firsts will always be my favorite.

It hits me in moments
   sometimes in the silence of the night
   sometimes in the bustle of the day
   others in the middle of a laugh

The truth?
          She's dead
                   gone
She won't hear about the long list of firsts that will eventually happen
                                   first kiss
                                   first date
                                   first love
My only sister is gone and I am alone

That word, suicide, has been forever changed
        Every time I hear it I flash to that cold December night
                                                to everything I saw
I have no questions
My day goes on
        but I know there's that little empty hole hidden behind a filing cabinet in my mind
Should it be bigger?
It will never be filled

If I could ask one thing,
     It wouldn't be why or even comeback

It would be...
                    
Are you happy where you are?

so gentle were the years of my youth
eyes beaming, gleaming, like tiny colorful moons
never a day too long, or too hard

times alone weren't lonely times
no judgment shown, there were no crimes

firsts as frequent as a feeding dove
first snow, first kiss, first love

so very gentle were those years i long for
of course, i can't go back
i would die for that

The smell of the oil as it's rubbed on your shoulder
The passion of the coach , we must be much bolder
The hatred of a player on the opposite side
The knowing when you'er out there there's nowhere to hide
The whistle has blow your anxiety drop
The firsts tackle made is a 19 stone prop
The taste of your blood makes it all worth while
The prop gets up and gives that I'll **** you next time smile
The old man on the score board sets our team to win
The small crowd on the side making all the din
The referees whistle calls the game to end
The prop who tried to **** you is now your friend
The hot water finds your wounds without any tear
The thought of some grub and a pint of beer
The game you so love has come to its end
The club house the banter a chat with a friend
The talk of the game the rights and the wrongs
The choir master arises and we blast out our songs

See you training