caught 22

Hate is a strong word.
Which is why I’m choosing to use it.

I hate you.

Adored by many and yet “no one understands” you or wants you.  Bemoaning how damaged you are, but always careful to hide the chisel you keep on your person at all times.  Playing puppeteer when you claim that you hate games.

You are a fucking hypocrite.
You are an awful person.
You are a narcissist, a megalomaniac, an egotistical, self-stroking piece of shit.

So why do I still want you?

I think I’ve finally figured out why.
It’s because I want to punish you.

I want to cover your stupid manipulative mouth with mine until you’re forced to shut up.  I want to bind your hands so that you’ll know what it feels like to have your freedom held hostage by someone’s whims.

I want to hurt you.
And fuck me, you’d like that wouldn’t you.



How am I supposed to let go?
You can call it a cage
but I know it as my haven
The lights only come through
in slats
from bars that
keep me safe
It’s cold sometimes
but my shivering
won’t bother anyone else
down here
But to be honest
I despise my own company
And this voice
her voice
my voice
is becoming too much
She remembers everything
their angry faces
their pressing hands
Sticks and stones
do break bones
but those can mend
Words are like knives
cutting holes and
leaving scars
So what do you do
when all that
is gone?

the words are gone

On the evening of June 11 2016, I fell asleep beside the love of my life. I met this person three years ago. I read a blog. The words were raw and beautiful and haunting, and I would irrevocably fall in love with the author.

On the morning of June 12 2016, I awoke to the sight of the love of my life stroking my hair. I could see unshed tears and a sorrow that I knew I’d never be able to dispel for the rest of our lives.

Before saying anything, I was warned in a choked voice: “Don’t look at the internet.”

But the first thing you do when told not to look down from a great height is to look down.

I looked down.

Forty-nine. Dead. Somewhere in Orlando. Forty-nine. 49. That’s a football team. 49. That’s an odd number. Forty-nine. That’s three syllables. Four. Tee. Nine. Dead. Dead is only one syllable. Like a drum beat. But it’s a drum beat that’s been stopped.

I only had the number. And then I was told the location of the slaughter: a queer-friendly club.

I rolled over to my side and looked at the slivers of sunlight through the blinds. “I need to garden today,” I said in a monotone.


I have a vagina. The love of my life happens to have a vagina.

To some, I am sick. I am a violation of nature. I am damned. I am misinformed. I am going through a phase. I am confused. I am experimenting. I am purposefully behaving radically.

My three-year-old nephew recently whispered to his grandmother that I loved my girlfriend, and that we were going to get married. And then he smiled. To my nephew, I am not a label. I am simply alive.

People have beliefs. I have beliefs. There are differences in everything, from the number of white blood cells in a body, to marijuana legislation, to brand name vs store brand, to right-handed and left-handed. Life is a product of differences.

So technically, it doesn’t really matter if you believe that what happened in Orlando was right or wrong. What I believe about it doesn’t matter either. Because at the end of the day, forty-nine people stopped existing. Because of one man, the lives of forty-nine people stopped. Just, stopped. Those are the cards on the table. Except they aren’t cards but lives, and the table is a scuffed nightclub floor.

On the evening of June 12 2016, my girlfriend fell asleep before I did. I listened to her steady breathing, kissed the bare skin of her shoulder, and quietly sobbed against her back. For the love that I felt for her. For the rightness of it to me, to her. For the forty-nine people who won’t ever fall asleep again because they’re asleep forever now.

Be on whatever soapbox you want. Pontificate or garner votes or condemn with whatever god’s lightning bolt. But for the sake of sake…have some fucking goddamn respect for the dead.


Wings must be an awful thing
leather & cord & bastard ambre
or isoflurane blue
It’s not like there are jackets
for that sort of thing
To conceal buoyancy?
To keep flight a secret?
They must grow heavy over time
like long hair, wet with shampoo
tipping your chin up
like a pendulum
swinging towards
Would I do it?
Could I fly?
Afraid of heights, but not of falling
Falling, I’ve done.
Fear, I’ve known.
& heights…
That’s just perspective, isn’t it.

Dear Alice

Your veins.

It’s supposed to be a curse.

Why, then, does everything seem more alive when you’re defective?  You shudder and wretch, and you make them cry blood, but you are so powerful.  I can’t touch that.  No one can touch you.  And you fight against the ones that played with your DNA, but you’re still so beautiful.

I will NEVER be what you are.

You thanked him for making you human, but you were never ordinary to begin with.  You’ve always been…defiant.  A red dress, a leather jacket to ward off the cold, but the chill is from the virus coursing through you.

I’ve never wanted to be so sick.

Can I be diseased like you?

Because I’m so broken, so easy to flatten and press into a cage.

The cage is frightened of you.

Tokyo or Suburbia, New York or sheets of ice.  Nothing can stop you.  You make massacre out of your chains, and you still sigh when he tells you it’s not over.  It may never be over, but why would you want it to desist?  You’re magnificent in motion.  I can’t stop thinking about you, replaying your grace.  And this writhing, seething jealousy is going to cannibalize me.  Because I’m not like you.  I’m nothing like you.  And I wish to darkness that I were.

Would you please just
would you please just
please just
infect me?


Why do ghosts haunt?
Did you leave something behind?
Was it a shred of
for a night too dark for words
and a desperation
too palpable to ignore?
Yours or mine?
I despise the trace you left