A letter to my lonely lover(Poem #157)

A letter to my lonely lover,

Warning,

this is not a love letter you will grin at as you read it like a poem each night…

No this is a letter of precaution,

Because I can only lay my head on the collarbone of your broken heart,

Attempt to hear the melody behind mismatched breathing.

I can not hear the way your breaths playing against your ribs like wind-chimes echoing the emptiness that is inside you,

No I can not hear that.

I can not feel the clattering of bones beneath me shaking at their own loneliness.

Nor understand that the reason you twitch right before you fall asleep is because your body  needs to remind you that you are more than a skeleton waiting to rot.

Laying here I don’t see any of that…

I understand what it feels like to have every ounce of your soul ache for intimacy,

But can not seem to grasp it or find it in this world.

Because we locked our hearts away in our rib cage,

and then threw away the key….

It’s not like we don’t know where the key is,

We do,

We memorized the seconds between bounces and exactly where it landed.

But out of sight equals out of mind,

And I can finally pretend that my heart isn’t resting on the bottom of my stomach,

crying out to be fixed like a broken birds wing.

No!

I will not feel that,

and neither will you…

So we try to find comfort in moments that will only land milliseconds in our brains,

And sleep in god knows how many other people’s beds because we have forgotten why it felt right to sleep alone…

But it’s not that we don’t feel it,

We do,

But we pretend that we don’t feel it,

We want to feel like we are a whole person laying beside yet another one night stand,

and that is it!

But when we wake up in the morning,

your face won’t give me comfort,

and I will look in the mirror to see exactly who I was yesterday staring back at me,

I want to punch the glass so that I bleed,

because bleeding makes sense,

that is what happens when you are hurt,

you bleed and you scar…

But not when it’s your heart.

Instead my eyes they bleed tears…and tears dry,

And it’s hard to explain why your hurting when what your body is bleeding in misery is only visible to you…

So I will crawl back in bed with you,

I will kiss you on the lips,

Say I had a good time,

Rest my head again on your chest pretending that the heartbeat I hear is simply that…

Just a heart beat…

Because if I read too much into it then I know I will do something stupid,

like kiss you again, but this time it will be different because it will mean something,

because for that millisecond my heart will drop a feather outside my ribcage reminding me that I can still feel.

But I don’t want that.

I would rather live in the graveyard of my hollow chest,

then give you the power to send my heart back to hell!

That’s the scary thing about laying next to a broken lover…

They make you realize how broken YOU truly are…

Home (Poem #156)

I got told by my father today that my sexuality wasn’t natural and was immoral,

My mother laughed at the idea that it even exists,

I’ve never felt so alone and judged. 

Yet they wonder why I am tentative to show them how I feel,

But how am I supposed to act when the walls I called home are filled with wondering eyes,

When I can’t be half the person I am in fear that you will only see me as that and nothing more,

How am I supposed to act when your house no longer feels like home,

Because people like me,

We aren’t welcome here. 

Mom and dad

I would go home more of you really understood,

But I can’t. 

My friends now don’t understand,

How I can label myself as one way yet say I have never dated someone of the same sex,

That I have never laid my hands on a women,

No they don’t get it. 

It’s not that I haven’t considered it or don’t want to,

It’s because I can’t. 

Mom and dad,

I want to feel at home again,

But I can’t,

I don’t want to walk in the door with my girlfriend and simply have to call her my friend,

I want to hold her hand and tell you

How she is beautiful,

That she lights up my skies in a way that would make the stars jealous,

That her laugh is more beautiful than the apple blossoms that bloom in spring,

And that in her arms I feel more secure than when I have stood in my own home.

I want to do that,

But I won’t.

I fear the response,

And your ignorance.

No I am not with her because I have been hurt by men!

No this is not some phase I will grow out of!

No she isn’t some experimental toy I have because I am in college!

No she is not just some girl!

She is strong,

She is beautiful,

And she is mine!

She knows more of me than you ever will,

Because she can see past the stigma of a title.

So I am sorry mom and dad,

But there is a chance that another girl or boy or ze will take the place of what you tried to call my home,

Because they don’t make me live in a house of glass,

And they finally succeeded in make me feel less alone. 

Your place as a man (Poem #155)

The systematic problems with heteronormativity and patriarchy,

Are not limited to the silence of voices of those who are not blessed with falling into those categories,

No,

They also create a world that limits and defines what it means to be blessed by living there,

It discounts part of a voice of a male activist standing on a street corner fighting for equal rights 

It muffles the screams for their brother and sister with questioning scoffs of how could they understand,

It is as if the heteronormativity and patriarchy hold all people to their roles.

No one can scream too loudly without their faith, morality, and validity being questioned,

As if being male took away from his message,

And being straight means he could never understand what it meant to be a thirteen year old boy hiding in the locker room too afraid to change because he was gay. 

You are he will never understand but that shouldn’t discount his voice. 

Allies and advocates come in all shapes and sizes. 

So just because he can stand in his white male heterosexuals privilege does not mean he does not understand what it means to have your voice shake because of a message,

Because society has a shotgun to his head from both sides waiting for the wrong words to slip from his lips and spill over. 

Believe me I’ve been there,

On the edge of standing for something I could never truly understand but wanted to save,

Had my heart tremble at words peircing my lips. 

So I want to thank you white heterosexual men who take a stand,

Thank you for grabbing the blade of a double edge sword this system has created to prove the point that it is not ok,

I see your sacrifice and bravery,

Thank you for taking your place in our fight to gain a voice for everyone,

 whether they be men, women, straight, lgbtq, gender nonconforming, people of color, white, and/or trans.

Thank you for taking up the fight,

And taking the place you can only stand as a straight white man. 

Your own story…(Poem #154)

There is something beautiful about owning your own story,

Whether it breathes magic of fairytales,

or fire of tragedies.

I promise you if you ask I will read some of mine to you,

Page by page,

Chapter to chapter,

I’m a pretty open book.

But my story is mine to bare,

And only my hands can handle the delicate pages the right way.

View my story like a diary,

If I open it up to share with you,

don’t take it take it for granted,

and rip the pages out at the seam

so you can claim that you “have this one friend that went through this and they…”

No!

If I wanted everyone to know my story I would have become an actress

Or hired a reality TV show to make a story of the shit show that is my life.

But I didn’t,

I shared it with you,

So carry it with care,

Take it out when you want to remember who I am,

because one day I will be gone,

and all you will have left is that story,

that memory of me.

So ask me to read a chapter from my life,

and I will tell it all to you,

because someday my chapters will end,

and my story will be over…

The end.

 

The reality of the “perfect man”(Poem #153)

I’m tired of boys telling me I’m worth it,

When they only walk away.

Because you were the 13th boy to lay hands on me,

with little to no intention to stay.

I guess I should be used to it,

hearing those ringing words,

“You deserve the world!”

Yet the world fell at your hands

Because even though you say I am worth it,

I still feel second hand.

like the canvas you laid paint on,

but you wish you never had,

because the picture that we painted,

though it truly wasn’t bad,

didn’t quite breath perfection to your life.

No the image was all too real,

not like the fairytales that I had waited so long for.

No my canvas has been broken, and ripped, and torn.

My edges are all rough, no longer soft and smooth.

So stop telling me I’m worth it,

that the perfect man exists…

Because the perfect man wants a new canvas,

not one he has to fix…

The right way (Poem #152)

I’ve always struggled,

to find the right words,

or the right way to show I care,

or the right way to speak about pain,

or the right moment to express myself,

or the right way to hide just enough of me that I don’t get hurt,

or the right way to fall in love,

or the right way to dance on eggshells for others,

or the right way to place my hand upon your face that you can’t feel mine tremble,

or the right way to smile so shyly that it looks like innocence but it really simply fear,

or the right way to kiss a stranger and make them feel like it means nothing yet means everything,

or the right way to not feel,

or the right way to say I forgive you when really the ache in my heart says I won’t forgive me,

or the right way to sit across the room from someone I love and tell them I am happy for them when my world is falling apart,

or the right way to say I’m simply not hungry when really hunger doesn’t come close to how I feel,

or the right way to say just enough that you will believe me when I say I am ok…

I’ve been training myself for years…

for the right way to pretend to be me,

but the right way isn’t working anymore,

and I am helplessly lost,

with no right way to go,

or no right way to fix this and move on,

and I am starting to curse myself,

because the right way used to seem so clear,

but now the right way is filled with the fog of tears,

the dew of sadness,

and the raindrops of despair,

even though the clouds are filled with emptiness,

it is still raining,

and in the wind I hear it,

saying that the “right way” is what lead me right here…

The first date (poem #151)

I want to thank you,

For sitting across a table from me sipping coffee,

Holding short conversations about life,

Just like a perfect gentleman. 

You may not see it,

But I’m not used to it,

And it is nice to sit down for once

Not be treated like a paper doll,

Being undressed and redressed by men after first dates

Men who are later suprised and repulsed when they get cut by my unclean edges. 

I may appear tough but the paper can tear when touched by too rough of hands,

Or exposed to too much fire. 

So when I say it was different,

I mean it in the most sincere way,

Thank you for holding my gentle paper hand,

And holding meaningless paper conversations

In that paper coffee shop,

Thank you for not taking the chance to take advantage of my paper heart

And letting me be the fragile little girl I can be for five seconds,

Because it is nice

And rare for me

To sit across a table and have someone be ok with the paper version of me.