You leave nothing but bees in my stomach,
but here’s the twist:
this time it doesn’t sting. .
They make honeycombs of my
veins
and house their queen
in the chambers of my heart.
Every time my skin breaks,
honey spills.
How wonderful it is;
how lovely to
know that even without you,
I am still
so sickeningly
sweet.
You hollowed out my body
without ever entering it.
You are not the first boy
to touch me like this.
You will not be the last.
You owe me nothing,
still.
And it was stupid of me
to think your warmth would last
throughout the night.
Instead,
I got out of bed to redress.
I got out of bed
realizing this will always be less
than what I want
and somewhere
I had accepted this.
Settled
for it.
You
only kiss me after drinks.
You never reach for me.
I need a hand to entwine with,
arms to hold me,
somebody who
will want to touch me
first.
I’m not asking you
to fill a void
you didn’t put there.
I’m not asking you
to act like this something
more than what it is.
I’m just saying
it’s no longer “good enough”;
I’m saying
I don’t want this.
May
hollowed me out.
Tried fitting the remains of my body
in the spaces between branches
of the trees that that hang
over strips of Central Park.
Sometimes I think I’m still stuck there.
Draped body bent, dangling like a fool.
August
carved me up.
Peeled bark back to write our names
between the notches of a tree;
awestruck at its longevity,
the centuries,
the first ring we were circling.
To be felled by a whisper,
a breath in the dark halting at “timber”.
Coming home to a bed made of sawdust;
silence just as loud a sound.
November
just hurts.
Memory made flesh again
and again
and again.
No intention of imprint
yet fingers skim
over and under
and lower on skin.
The night bit back
every time I got out.
A slap.
A preview of static.
Again.
You
will leave
and she will never know your name.
Never know the sound of your footsteps
coming down the hall,
the clatter of your hands
searching in the cabinet for a mug.
Never look me in the eye and question
what it means to love
truly
wholly
honestly.
Openly.
Never know the scent of your skin
or the texture of your hair.
Never even think to ask
about you.
And one day,
neither will I.
I don’t bleed out
on pages anymore.
Instead, I let myself become paper thin.
Poke, and
Prod, and
Pick at scabs,
Until I uncover memory;
Bruise myself unintentionally.
Let the pain breathe.
Find myself screaming
curses at you and him and her
under shower streams.
Let
myself be angry.
Don’t
shame myself for the grief.
I don’t bleed out on pages anymore
but that doesn’t mean I let it
rush internally.
Let it make a home of my cheeks,
behind my ears,
Caress my neck
like a kiss.
I don’t bleed out on pages anymore,
But I cry
Every other night.
Consider that a win,
‘Cause it’s better to release.
I don’t bleed out on pages anymore
because I have to learn to let go.
Memorize
the shape of my cheek
against the pillow.
Fanatical? Yes.
But fantastical feeling
knowing someone
knows the curve of my face
against linen. Likes it.
I
have never known a love like that.
Press my cheek against the pillow —
diagonal,
try and dream
about a love like that.
And if I had stayed,
I’m not entirely sure where I’d be coming
home to.
If your lap would become rest stop
for my head,
would your fingers travel through my hair
a map made by tangles, the way they did
the first night I kissed you?
Were we really like that once?
And if I had stayed,
would that home be welcoming?
Would I not miss you the way I do now,
except be physically closer?
Would you leave the sound of lasers and
boss levels to stay with me until I slept?
But I didn’t stay.
And lately I miss you more than less.
But I don’t regret leaving,
because in the process,
I reclaimed myself.
So I’ll stay lonely.
And the questions can remain unanswered.
It hurts, but it’s truly for the best.
like dots needing to be
reconnected.
And I sat and watched the conversations ripple
across the table like
to each set of lips a piece of yarn
was attached and I was caught
playing telephone,
alone.
It’s like,
I come to reconvene
and by that I mean watch.
I arrive at a table and wait
for his eyes to meet mine
or someone’s arms to enclose around my shoulders
from behind and I
look at these people I have gathered
together again
and I wonder why
I call them my friends when every time I leave the diner
I know I could go a few months or years without seeing them.
Maybe, maybe we’d feel closer then.
We are ostracized by a table
half the size of the dining room
and I am looking at you
and you are laughing.
And I am watching you
and you don’t look at me;
and this is why I don’t believe you
when you say I’m ‘pretty’,
when you like ‘my personality’.
I see the way you’re smiling,
the way your eyes are glinting,
and maybe you’ve finally fooled me.
But in those moment, I swear
you look, you seem
genuinely happy.
And maybe that lessens the blow
of the lie:
that I know you never watch me
when I’m having a good time.
So the next time we are at a table
and this time, I’m at your side,
I’ll still cherish that smile,
But won’t confuse it for your validity
of my ‘pretty’
or ‘personality’.
No, without you,
without it, I’m still me,
and regardless,
I’ve been doing just fine.
You may not know
who my favorite slam poet is
and sometimes I forget
that adults were once kids.
So, forgive me this—
But when my mother
disagrees with me
it feels like I’m losing my religion.
Because I ended up rattled,
wondering what and where
and who to put my faith in
because according to my Bible,
judging others also counts a sin.
Because,
Mother,
you have promised me that
though I may be lonely,
I am never alone.
And I’m wondering how that’s true
when I’m left spilling ink
onto keys because you reject
the words I speak.
And it must be true,
because the voices in my head
won’t let up,
my head won’t keep up
above the tide that keeps pulling me under;
you say I am strong,
and keep making me weak.
Because,
Mother,
I am choosing to live differently.
Because acceptance
and love go hand-in-hand
and sometimes I wonder,
who are we letting define
Christianity.
And,
I have always strived for honesty,
so why is it when
I reveal that I have been
lost,
that I have been looking to be found
in their hands
and learned by their lips
that I just want to feel “wanted”
your automatic response
is “well, remember that
when you have sex with him”.
Mother,
Mama,
He didn’t get that far.
Or him.
Or him,
or him or him or him.
And trust me when I say
there were plenty opportunities,
when he had me on his bed,
or when he was on mine,
when he looked me in the eyes
Trust me,
Mama,
I was willingly to let them all
take me
But I was waiting to be taken in
instead of having skin
scalped back over skin,
reveal twisted and healing organ.
Heart,
know this,
do not be afraid to re-begin.
That love
is no competition.
That your mother
is the same woman
you have put your trust in.
Heart,
remember when
she was the only one
who reminded you to have
pride in
to fall in love with
yourself
before they even get a chance
to glance
in your direction.
And remember,
this may only be subjective.
Remember, you are the little girl,
with the a promise in her name.
Remember, you are the first child she raised.
Remember,
“God is my strength.”
Remember she taught you to be enough
on your own, and you don’t need anyone,
let alone “men”.
Remember, you are your own definition.
Remember each lesson.
Remember I’m still being taught
I’m just trying to learn
what real love
is.
Because,
Mother,
Though I have given up on religion,
I am still praying.
Because,
Mother,
when I’m telling you
I’ve been lost,
I want you to tell me,
regardless of church,
regardless of tradition,
at the end of the day,
it is me you will
always
have faith in.
Writer.Reader.Thinker.Dreamer. 