sltb0y poetry

māmā calls me mǐngǎn (敏感), sensitive. tears dribble valleys into my cheeks, sensitive. strong boys don't cry, they look into the sun with squinted eyes, and they certainly are not sensitive.

roses are delicate, māmā says when i pluck one from the garden. but māmā adores them, even if delicate is synonymous with sensitive.

if i can't be sensitive like me, maybe i'll be delicate like a rosy sea.

everything about me is in limbo, including my state of mind

one blink— there are figures sitting at the table. fujifilm grain timestamped with a 2009 nikon, fingers hovering over a keyboard icon

two blinks— the leaves cascade in slow-motion. stuttering steps, of undevotion frames streaming by, one a second looking unfinished, despite stretching a neck in

three blinks— four breaths. dig my nails in, plant feet down, overwhelm my senses forgetting how bright when life condenses

today, i am drawn to yesterday's embers. so much roams in the space between ignition and combustion a length of time, a lingering haste

and to think, it was such a waste. burning up the ground upon i stood in a rage so bright, lit a match, i should—

you always held me, with a tenderness i didn't deserve. the soft callouses of your palms swipe away the streams on my cheeks, leaving behind a constellation of stars in your wake.

it's as if you always evade me, your gracefulness, i didn't inherit nor your love, mettle, or merit.

there's a little kid pounding in my chest, gnawing on my sternum, pulling my ribs from my tergum.

nails torn: red, raw, gone. on and on, reaching into the deepest morceau of my desperate torso.

flames are so pretty.

transforming something mundane and grotesque, into a bright spectacle of fire; sweltering off the raw sickly resin dripping down a golden sticky confection.

the pads of my fingers burn to ash when i cradle radiant embers, hoping to light myself so luminous.

in a destruction so pure and violent, the pyre births a life one oh so brilliant.

there are secrets held within my bones, weaved into the fabric of my being. i can't help but want to bleed them out, let my pulse return to the blank slate that marks the beginning.

rewind the grains that trickle down into a pile, and toss them back to the sky to collide with the years so dearly passed by.

it's a fine establishment.

they clamp hooks into my soft palate, dragging out sinful confessions of loving habits.

i'm a defiant child, they'll say as i stare down the diplomat who takes my childish passion as merciless permission.

no matter how long i doubt, they continue to pry from my bullet-torn mouth.

when i stare too hard this body is no longer mine. the edges go fuzzy, as if it were divine, contours combine and realign, shaping into one malignant sign.

there's a calm when drowning, a quiet that claims you when your lung starts burning.

making peace with god is easier when staring up at heaven from the murky depths of ascension.

hooked into my fish eye and pulling me asunder, urging my destiny as the boy wonder.

it keeps me hooked.

hooked on the frail love that temporarily blinds my eye, daring my spirit to defy.

god knows who stays, reeling in the tattered forms of a world burnt through holy storms.