Anxiously Homosexual

A boy

Lost deep beneath the covers of his own mental health

Afraid to own up to his failures 

Riding a crashing wave of success

Eating dust and sand. 

"Have you no shame?You've been blessed! 

Each day with the gift of life but you waste it away in smoky rooms with people you don't know.

Drinking substances that you only regret 

Making memories that blur into one 

And hurting yourself over and over again with ideas of love built on a look from drunken stranger”

The bags beneath my soul weigh me down

I have nothing to look forward to anymore.

The future is too far and tomorrow is almost here throwing itself at me; like a dart towards a board. 

Remember how you used to cry in your high school bathroom stalls, and look at you now

Tears watering your cheeks 

Armpits unpleasantly sticky 

Breath of cigarettes and drink 

You're almost a lost cause 

Throw yourself to the wolfs boy, God will not save you, you abandoned him 5 years back when you closed the bible and hid it in the back of your closet with your old buttons. 

Throw yourself 

Nobody's watching 

It'll feel like you're flying 

Finding love is like going for a drive on a Sunday and finding a cute house to look at. Envisioning yourself there and dreaming up endless narratives in a space that is in no way yours.

Finding love is packing up your things, making room for the new to fit in with the old. Making room for new rituals, emotions, memories. Making room for someone else.

Finding love is moving into a new space with an open mind and learning to fall in love with every inch of it. Even the cracks in the wall, and that leak on the ceiling. It’s finding that the sunset is best through the front window and on raining nights your bedroom is a sanctuary of peace.

Finding love is patience, frustration, fear, and many many leaps. It is bravery; like signing for a house you may only love for as long as you’re happy there. It is growing; like renovation and rebuilding.

Or maybe finding love is an empty plot with bounds of potential. Maybe it is envisioning a future and drawing plans. Maybe it’s building something that is truly yours; taking two steps back and five steps forward and going and up and down and patience, lots of patience. Understanding, frustration, fear, agreeing to disagree.

I fear constantly that one day I will fall in love with a man who’s skin has brought pain and grief to the history of my freedom.

His Light brown hair and prescribed privileges will be a point of controversial conversation at my family dining room table; rolled ‘r’s and “does he love you because of your heart or does he love you because of your skin?”

Can I be beautiful to the white man? To my own I am nothing more than a sin, my masculinity cancelled out by my lack of heterosexuality. But can I be more than my skin to the white man? Will he love me for my kinks and dry elbows. Hair routines and koesister accent.

I exile myself from the comfort of my bedroom. I starve myself. My stomach growls like night sky threatening the earth with rain. I do not bathe, cleanse or clean myself. I am filthy, like the soil that lays beneath my heals, the ground filled with creatures. 

I am inhumane this day. Incomplete and detached from this place we call home. Shattered. Broken. Over and over and over and over and over and over. 

Hello? 

No, I am not here. Don't knock at my door. Do not call my name at the entrance to my mothers womb. 

I walk through my dreams like a whisper; subtle and soft, making sure not to shatter anything or burst any bubbles.

The balloons float above my head with the words, “inhale me” written on their cling skin, like a lover looking for escape. I pull one down by its black wool string and bite. Inhale. 

My voice is high pitched and shaky, it was not helium as I had perceived, but rather a balloon filled with fears. The clouds laughed at me as they flew away. And like the whisper I once was the balloons began gossiping in judgmental silence. 

It has been barely a minute here and I’m already uncomfortable, voices in my head and ants beneath my feet. I find comfort in a chair made of the soft touch of my mother and the hugs of my father. 

To sleep is something I cannot do, for it would be unfair to my insomniac to be without work, but I will close my eyes (at least) in hopes that I will fool my body and kill two birds with one stone. 

In a trump like manner (with cheesy vigor and aggressive discomfort), I feel a hurricane of breath against my left cheek. I awake from my insomnia to the sight of a small pink giraffe, who informs me that it has come time for me to leave. 

The small giraffe, with childlike difficulty, blows a bubble that floats towards me with jazzy swing and collects me like pollen from a sunflower. 

When you run your first bath in 6 months, you forget the subtle touch of the foam on your skin and the prickling burn of the water on the tips of your toes; the smell of bubbles will excite you.

I sit hunchback staring into the clear water; moving my toes between the soapy clouds and rubbing the sides of my submerged thighs. Remember the times you would wash in 5 cm shallow water, remember? Remember when you didn’t know the words you use to describe your identity, remember?

Aggressively rubbing soap between the palms of my hands, I wash myself. Across my chest, up my neck towards my chin and over my shoulders and down my arms, then my face vigorously before drizzling warm water over my soap covered skin.

The heat of the water beats against my face and skull, my breath is heavy. Turning on the cold water; I let it run over my head and wash my face again.

I lay myself down slowly, feeling the water cover my upper body and the bath touch the back of my head until I am covered in water up to my adams apple and my hairline.

Eyes closed, I can hear the water run down the second drain as I pull my head under the water too. Delicately bubbles float from the opening on my lips to the surface. I am contemplating lying here longer than I should and decide against it. I wonder about death, remembering every suicide I can think of. I come up for air.

Eventually I feel faint from the heat; I lift my fingers out the water and observe the small labyrinths of skin. The plug I pull with my left foot and wrap it around the hot water faucet.  I let the water run through the pipes as I lay, feeling the level sink with every breath I take until the water has disappeared beyond the bottom of the bath.

Before I get up, I run my eyes down my body.

I stand up and dry myself with a towel my skin knows too well.

I smile then look into the mirror until I can see myself behind the steam. I remind myself of every time I hated myself and pick out every flaw I can find. I laugh at myself for being so damn dramatic.

Alone, with a fish tank bubbling in the kitchen. I’ve let the dogs out the back door. The night is warm, and dark; unlike yesterday and the day before. 

I don’t remember the last time I cried. 

I always feared the day you would leave me. I never understood why because you made sure to tell me everyday that you loved me. I guess I never let myself feel the truth in your kisses and the warmth in your hugs. I never allowed myself to see you listen to every word I spoke, to hear the honesty in your laughter when you cracked up at all my worst jokes. 

I wish I could’ve shown you the knots in my stomach and the happiness in my heart whenever I saw you. Or show you the rainstorm tears I would cry inside when we had to say our goodbyes. But all I gave you was a straight face and sometimes a shy smile. And, I’m sorry, I never meant for you to think I was a bush full of thorns. 

1. Put on some music from the classical or romantic era (e.g. Schubert's Ave Maria or Mozart's Requiem).

2. Place yourself in a comfortable position on a bed in a room with adequate dramatic lighting.

3. Situate your thoughts deep within your mind and contemplate your life and existence. (Ideas for thoughts: Trump, Kanye, Global warming, lack of December funds, that time Beyoncé snatched your edges, 2016 in general)

4. Cry.(optional for men. #masculinityisfragile)

Congratulations you are now going through an existential crisis.

Take me to the sea;

fresh salty air and the dark depths.

Let me sleep there.

It’s late; 17:04 to be exact. There’s a blue tint to my bedroom atmosphere. Birds. Voices. Outside beyond my reach for now.