I am not broken, I’m bent like a street sign surviving a crash; I am the telephone wire, more grounded after each storm. There will always be those excuses for discord, whether it is the moon or your father’s hands. I will be the bookmark in a time you learned to invest outside of elevator rides to hell. When you wake up at night they are my eyes in the darkest corners still watching from every synapses in your own mind (you asked me to be here, so I will reside). You will always be the tremors under my left eyelid when someone asks me about love, about the hurt, about those moments out of breath with lips against lips against lips. (What I am trying to say is, I would always choose you, respect you, love you with a wholeness like only a first and true [knowing you could never do the same].)


I cut off my hair. [TW]

When they ask you what you took from this, tell them you took my body first and tonight I gave you my hair, coiled up like a child’s ringlets. Put them in a body bag, I have no use for pleasantries beneath this chill; I am submerged and cannot elicit a response from my own hands other than to replicate these daily deaths in the hope of exhaustion. “Petty boys like you get raped,” he says to me as we drink solitary, alone, in our reflection: Despair, my brother. We are reunited like lovers after war (they don’t tell you it takes years to rebuild a city).

Gold Ocean

Can you kiss me like a lightbulb? I leave lights on absentmindedly now, pacing to prepare for what ambition feels like. Will these knuckles pull us into the light upon entrance or is wishful optimism too much like whitewashing the reality I reflected in your retinas? Criticism to castration has left me more numb than most but it has let this new flesh erupt under your prints. We are Mondays, like clockwork and I wait to be reborn under you again. Has the earth ever smelled the same? Everything is sensed newly, like everything for naught was woven into stomach drops with the weight of how you say my name. With every hurt from your past leaving these lines on my face, I am a card-carrying holy heathen lost in your love unraveled before me. I revel in these management complaints I spurt on tiny slips of paper under your door; I want to pass them to the boys who left you like this with a tip, that they do everything exactly the same in a rendition more controlled because though I’d have you any way when allowed this particular you is so beautiful to me.