I hate myself for having a dream,
A dream that is different from the status quo.
I hate myself for staying away is home
I hate myself for being misjudged.
Candle smoke over your shoulder,
Guess I didn’t get that closure,
and it seems I still can’t get over,
My admiration as your supporter.
I’m watching you become bolder.
You tell me we’re getting older.
That I need to call her to get over,
So I rang on a flip phone and told her,
Poured my heart into the recorder.
Then woke up in sweat and rolled over.
I miss the times when we were younger.
When regrets didn’t fuck my dreams over.
I make a list of the names who hurt me and I place it on my tongue. It tastes like bitter tears and blood underneath the sweet. I invite them into my body, let the doors open wide. The sun shines bright except for where it doesn’t, catching the sharp edges like gemstones. I let the memories overtake me. There’s a flood in my bones and it smells like they used to. I let the names soak in, dissolving so no one else can read them but me. The paper burns my tongue but this way they are mine.
I could let flame catch the edges, taking them into the air. The ashes would scatter far and wide where others can see. I could let them rip from my throat until they hear me. They would know what has gone as dark becomes light and the empty is freed. I would let them fly until the heavy is out. Hands holding what they put inside and it would feel justified. I could let them burn in a wildfire haze, cleansing me like tears never could. It would be so bright they couldn’t hide.
I feel the ink slide down my throat as I swallow. It clings to the flesh like the worst kind of drink and I let it linger. I run my hands over the broken, sweeping away dust. The sun is welcoming them in now, showing into me. I hold the names closer. They don’t know I still have them just as they never knew they marked me. I bite down and turn it into a grin. The names on the paper are dark and old and no one else can taste them.
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I will forever search for the magic I found with you.
-Poetry At Most
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BUREAUCRACY NEVER ACCOUNTED FOR THE FENCE SITTERS LIKE US (a poem)
The lobby we’ve been sent to is old and from the pages of a comic book I’ve never read. It is empty in here except for two infinitely long queues of people.
On the left (mine and yours), the sign asks to FALL IN LOVE. These people are loudly violent. They wrestle, fuck and play Jenga. This line believes that there is a winner in the person who can suffer the worst loss.
On the right (yours as well as mine), the placard suggests that we should BE IN A RELATIONSHIP. They all sing on this side. Sailors’ songs. Church camp ditties. All in 4-part harmony. All dead certain of their cheeriness. An acrobat is playing pattycake with a quarterback.
Hand in hand, we choose neither side. We cut down the middle of the thought experiment. You say something I cannot hear properly because now we are in a jungle.
I hang upside down from a branch untouched by moss. While you take a turn on the vines up ahead. Below me, the LOVE line squirms. Under and over each root in their path. They have made an artform out of writhing in shit and mud and treasure hunter’s shame.
In the distance, you are talking shop with a jaguar. A scene backlit by camera flashes. The RELATIONSHIP line is full of tourists. They are dawdling. Seeing the sights like it’s all bought and paid for. Some are polite enough to pass around a rare and deadly spider. Everyone gets the chance to be bitten.
I join you in a quiet sunlit canopy and you hand me a mango. We sink our teeth and dribble sweet juice from our chins to our snow-covered boots. An icy wind whistles and whips through the mountains. You pass me back the binoculars and point out a particular snow bank to the East.
The RELATIONSHIP crowd are roped together now, moving single file and slowly. Their route seems safe enough. But they struggle hard and struggle long. No slips can be afforded. If one goes down, then all must fall – more prey for the shimmering cliff face.
On the other side of the ravine, those in LOVE have made themselves an avalanche. They scream and holler. Thermals are stripped and waved in praise of their violently vomited snowdeath. Disciples of hypothermia – they throw echoes like punches at the mountain’s churning gut.
I wonder about how to follow. How we might keep deserving them. You just return to climbing our own peak. I wait a moment before digging my hand into your former foothold. As the clouds part around us, We startle a flock of pigeons roosting on a billboard.
The evening is clear. The city glows unabashedly. We are ninety storeys up. But neither of us know the building’s name. Or the street it’s on. Or the city it towers over. Below us, there is noise. There is movement. People. There is always people. But from this high, there is no way of telling who will FALL IN LOVE, who will BE IN A RELATIONSHIP. Who walks in between as we did. As we still do.
For the billionth time since our first meeting, we smirk gently at each other. Together, we clutch the ledge. We lean out over the night’s fresh confusion. And we spit chewing gum at people.
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They Don’t Care
I almost called my parents screaming
About the Republican Party
And their plan to disgrace and humiliate
Every trans kid they can locate
I thought about telling them
That I wished I had been trans as a kid
And that these laws are cruel punishments
To a demographic that already struggles to exist
But I know
That they probably don’t know
And they definitely don’t care
And they would see…
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Laws of Attraction
Transphobic ideology is just
It’s a fact. They know it. We know it.
They’re super insecure about it.
The TERF’s are incels
The cis transphobes are
Weird sexually unsatisfied cis folk
Married to people they regret, and
For whatever reason
This is our problem
We are sexier than them
It’s pretty much just the
Laws of Attraction
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It’s never been a question.
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"But don't you see? Our emotions are nothing more than a rainbow of afterimages...
You don't know how strongly you feel about something or someone until they have already come and gone."
- E.J. Vega
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love is the
fig and the wasp; the incessant, irreparably selfless act of giving, making
way for new seed. heart pollination among heart palpitations and
birth in the midst of rot. self sacrifice into new blood. love is the
death of myself into you, bodily rot with my dying
breath. it is the way i hold you in my arms with
the tangible dark engulfing my vision. it is summer breeze and your exhale
against my chest.
love is creating something from nothing. love is the
fig and the wasp; love is
fruit and life and death and wasps, love is
the sting and the bite and the
smell of an orchard in spring.
[in my dreams, in my
perfect love, i am
both—the fig and the wasp, that is—and i
am full of longing. soft longing, as the sun
aches for her moon. there is nothing carnal
about us. just a fig. just a wasp.]
[just the way my name fits in your mouth just right. just the way i know your coffee. just the way our stars align. just the way your fingertips jut out of the sleeves of my stolen hoodie. just the way you comb through my hair to soothe my nerves. just the smell of you in my room long after you’re gone. just the way i remember your favorite color, or the clothes you like to see me wear, or the park you took me to on our first date.]
[just a fig. just a wasp.]
[only in dreams do my trees bear fruit.]
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Smoke soars up,
flashing the contours
of your face;
when I try to chase it,
#i see you everywhere #yet you’re nowhere
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Ever growing like leaves beneath her relentless wind,
A tender place to rest after many hard-fought battles
Ever changing as the seasons,
Radiating spring warmth like the sun,
Weaving dreams and hope into my thoughts
Mother, you’re embodied force of nature,
epitome of patience and resolve.
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What are you supposed to do with all the love you have for somebody if that person is no longer there? What happens to all that leftover love? Do you suppress it? Do you ignore it? Are you supposed to give it to someone else?
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I’ll never not think of you.
I’m burying your memories right now.
In a box titled “my hearts partner”
In that box I’m placing all the special moments.
The giggles and laughs.
The first “I love you”
It still echos in my head.
I still remember the exact position I was in.
I’d never wanted to hear something so much.
The joy it gave me almost made my heart explode.
I start to cover the box with dirt.
It thumps and cries out to me.
Burying still fresh emotions.
I pull the box out and rip open the cover.
I wrap my hands around your memories and I cry.
I can’t forget you.
You were everything of my hearts desire.
You made me feel loved.
Worth your time.
You erased my pain.
You eased my past.
You smoothed over my anxiety.
I’ve never known someone like you.
I never will replace you.
You are my hearts partner
And you will always govern my love.
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i'm as pointless as the district / yes i'll asleep alone tonight
all my tokens have been broken into pieces; dust wagered in markets for testimonials and badges; i'm talking without talking-- you catch my lame brainwaves and you smile (sadly)
the only thing keeping me awake is my fear of dry air and my late-dad's apartment complex purgatory; i can't go back is all i ever hear-- was i the one worth leaving ? tenderness in every sliver of green-blue grass; i'm shedding feathers for a microwave breakfast.
sleeping hurts all the time; a numb pain i always forget when i go to the doctor's
(i'm not running across a wheat field, ruining a cow's sun-golden afternoon alone. i'm not travelling across america like every other hero on my shelf. i'm not even kissing you underneath fake, deranged palm trees. i'm just sitting on a tired couch. but it's not the couch)
the bar lights go out but i keep hearing birds and train whistles and taxi cab doors slam shut. closing on a story just beginning; i force my brain to forget about endings for a tiny little moment (and yet yeah, here we are, it's just another day)
I'm a ghost possessing my own body sometimes
I talk a lot about never feeling like a belong and I suppose this is the root of it
What am here for?
Who am I haunting?
Am I haunting my mother? Who in a single glance is reminded of her failures?
My friends? Who keep me around like the once beautiful dress whose rip they swear they'll fix.
The basis of life is death, this I know
Just as millions of organisms have died in the making of me I myself have died in the making of a million organisms
Death brings nourishment
But I'm simply just haunting
When I look at the mirror with a detached gaze
Nothing can touch you
Walls can't block you
When you're a ghost with a beating heart
-"Haunting" by M.S.
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I wish I had done everything on earth with you.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
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ANONYMOUS ON TUMBLR ASKED: "CAN YOU DO SOMETHING ABOUT LGBTQ YOUTH AND MENTAL ILLNESS?"
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May the bridges I burn light the way.
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It’s awfully praiseworthy and all sorts of magnificent how a great many poets have acquired the golden art of distilling their outer world of romantic love into the wine of powerful verses; how their deep-seated and often rather frustrated emotions have been transformed into words on the paper, words chained to carefully selected words, sometimes as a rule aiming for the harmony of the rhyme, sometimes opting for the aerial anarchy of the free verse, but always in the end pushing strongly towards the very real creation of a new sort of universe originated from the illuminated thoughts and emotions of the naked poet, thoughts and emotions which in their linked function with images and metaphors in turn will open within the reader a portal into a reverie that might weave itself into a stored memory that ultimately and ideally could ripen into the great and giving experience that is called inspiration. The poet’s experience of romantic love (requited or not) will nearly always have shades and colours that are internally recognized by the absorbed reader, yet it is the singular and idiosyncratic perspective or take on the amorous experience that will ultimately add and contribute to the depth of the reader’s cognitive and emotional framework of that glorious (though for many often disappointing) phenomenon, romantic love.
@michaelbogild (poet and lyricist)
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