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.

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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.

“Okay.”

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.

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?

how It is

Dearest Father,

I’m pretty sure you cheated.

Your heart stopped beating at two in the morning.  But that was the exact moment when everyone gained an hour.  You literally stole sixty minutes from life while on your deathbed.

I can laugh about it now.  But at 2/3:02 in the morning that day, I didn’t know what was happening.

I was wearing a dress shirt that belonged to you.  The vertical stripes were salmon-colored, but you thought it looked too much like pink.  Did you know that I still have the pajama pants I wore that night?  They’re faded and torn and the word “Knockout” is no longer legible on the butt, but I can’t seem to bring myself to get rid of them.

I ate pizza that night and watched “Friends,” though for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you which episode it was.  There’s a general consensus stating that it takes approximately 40 muscles to smile.  I’m sure my body laughed, but my heart didn’t.

Someone recently asked me this question: “What is your biggest mistake in life?”

I blinked, licked my lips, swallowed, and looked down at the table.  My reply was quiet, but definite: “Not telling my father I loved him the night he died.”  Pause.  Another swallow.  Sandpaper maybe.  “That was my greatest failure as a daughter.”

You would’ve been sixty-nine years old today.  And here I sit, in a stuffy apartment, miles away from a house full of memories with you, and I’m not sure if I feel comforted or just lonely.

I still think about you, you know.  Every day.  That might sound cliche, but I swear to you, it’s true.  Sometimes it’s silly things like giving a tailgating motorist a hard time the way you always did.  But it’s also bigger things, profound and so staggering that I don’t understand how I can remain standing when all I want to do is fall to my knees and weep with missing you.

I used to write you letters everyday.  They never made it to you; you were six feet too far.  At some point I stopped writing them because mother once told me that if I talked to you in my mind, you’d hear me.  Figured I wouldn’t waste the paper.

Still.  There’s something to be said for the empirical.  I know these keys won’t bring you back.  I know this box full of characters won’t bring you back.  I know remembering you today or any other day won’t bring you back.  Nothing I will do for the rest of my life will ever change the fact that you died.

But on the off-chance that you browse the world wide web when you’re not busy playing golf with St. Peter and all your siblings, know that I’m sorry.  I should’ve told you that I loved you.  It’s not enough that you knew on some omniscient level.  You fucking deserved to hear it.

I love you.  And I miss you.  And happy birthday.

I Remain,
your daughter

 golf-course-37a

No. It’s on YOU.

You get off on it, don’t you
your throne of command
your “commandment” voice
I don’t believe in you
But she does
She always has
And I, the accused heretic
preach sedition with
my scheming tongue
Do you think I bow to you?
You’re not as wise
as they all presume
I may incline my head
in your direction
but it is in shame
to Love, to the gods
in which I DO believe
Do not forgive her
for she knows what she does
It’s not protection, dear dictator
it’s suffocation
made easy by the grace of her neck
which she proffers in familial obligation
That’s the thorn, isn’t it.
You gave her life
but I gave her purpose
and you can’t STAND
that she willingly swears
allegiance to me
So you tower
on ancient stone tablets
saying what she shall and shalt not do
Blood may be thick, you jackal
but ink is thicker.

because you won’t answer

WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM.
Why are you so blind to Her?

Do you realize
that every time
you shrug Her off
you chip away
a little bit more
at the armor
She’s welded?
Do you know
that you’re partly to blame
for that iron cage?

How can you look but not see?
How can you love but disrespect?

Bite the hand that
feeds the beasts and
gives them water and
sleeps beside them
when the wind is ice
and the world is ash

She has always been there.

But the horror has come, yes?
To take Her away?
To lift some veil
from Her ocean eyes?
To poison that sweet girl
with syringes of..
Of what?

Reality