write me into a corner and keep me there forever

a compilation of my poetry and journals.

i will make beauty for you, i will, i will, i will; god, can’t you hear me? my fucking promises bleed guilty with every stitch in this blanket, the gold dashes score down my back too, and the sky. i’m spinning this thread and encasing its thunderstorm ache with amber — finger; tongue; thread — it has become an exchange, the lick to unearth any value from my lungs vs my best attempt at disguise. when you look up at the stars, do you scream my name? can you promise me it was once in love and once in pain and nothing more? would you seal a promise with a lie or have i bet on the only nobel heart dancing the horizon?

what is the component within that rust tinted touch?

i remember when i was fifteen, i sunk my hands into the tar of reflection and found that jet-black goo wanted to hold me for a century. up to my elbows coated for a lifetime, a thousand cut up minutes compiled into irredeemable insanity. i was sure, certain, the guts crawling in my skin could never ever be seen. and now i look down at my hands, and study the flicks of black peeling at my fingernails, and remember the kindness of time. the grandmother under the lemon tree, jug of water in hand, pouring ever so gently for a millennia.

when i think of home, the one i can never go back to, i think of rich, deep tangerine sunsets as thick as honey. i feel the sun sticking to my form long into the night as if it could ever keep me; a desperate hug that kept me awake through august and now. i hear children laughing and kicking around a ball on shortbread coloured ground, i watched from the roof, over the hexagonal walls. do you hear me when i let them walk all over me? did this spirit pass down through generations to be crushed by a stinging laugh on a playground? am i the man to write myself into a corner kept alive by blood that keeps getting out of them?

Do you ever feel like theres a boy you could have been? Where does he live? Is it neverland? A place full of lost boys and happy endings unable to be reached by their youthful hands. My lover was in my arms when they told me our scars didn’t pull us here, they painted a canvas with two clean and free bodies stumbling over each other in the sunlight. Did you know that? Did anyone think to tell you? That it never needed to happen?

it’s been a week since i have kneeled down to worship you. language, my lover. i have had too many thoughts of Decay and its siblings, they curl around the rusting copper core i named Doubt. she sings a wistful tune, filled to the brim with something thinner and far more shallow than sadness but drowning all the same. my mouth chokes on you, this nothing, this nothing sea.

i haven’t checked in. i’ve arrived to an empty home. a house not a home. i’m waiting for an emotion to strike me dead, or alive, whichever i need more. i want to live. i want to dance. it’s all i’ve dreamt of for months. these people won’t see you. but i see them, their truth is stinging my sensitive skin every second. i’m going to walk away and make a new way. a week filled with false starts. where do i find the solace and recognition? if not in humanity? i should write a book. cram it with every emotion there is and make people weep with blood and sorrow from marks on paper. i know this world is becoming refined. i know queerness is awaiting my arrival, i need to put on my big black boots and run. i know i decide my fate, and make a life for myself out of the nearest cardboard and tape, but i fear that wonky castle with a cereal box draw bridge. i fear what i’ve created for it feels like anti-yearning, and who am i with out my aching chest?

.mirror.