you ask, and i lie.

I'm not okay, sometimes.

Some days are worse than others, some days tangle themselves about my diaphragm and shorten my breath. But maybe it's just the weight of my chest; or maybe it's the pull of the heavy twenty dollars in my pocket, meant to be spent on men's shirts. Every time, I get too scared to buy them though. I'm afraid of her, of being a disappointment, of being her kid: the fuck-up.

She makes me feel like a little girl, when I'm trying so hard to be a full-grown gentleman.

... Other days I feel guilty, because I could have it so much worse.

Still, it hurts. And I feel confused about everything.

the sylph.

she's all flute and piccolo, 

lilting sounds, sweet sounds,

powder blue and stardust sounds

she's all he hears anymore

and the strings and drums

snap and rot

and their songs are painfully thin.

the wind will slam our bodies together.

All I can think about is that one line--

"the music our collisions make."

We're a crashing, clanging, clattering, cacophonous score

rising to the ears of a dead god.

And maybe it's beautiful. 

The internet taught me about sex three years ago.

But I still don't understand sexuality.

... I guess mostly just mine.

The Bible never explained any of this.
So as a perfectly good "church kid," what am I left with?

Now what?

Some days I think about it.
And I'm sad.
And I wonder if I'd be happier if I weren't so queer.
...And I wonder if they miss me.

But more than anything, I wish my mom would stop worrying.

couldn't you try? I could be your prince...

Hey, I uh...

I guess...

I, um...

Still really wish I could have you.

Damn it... 

I gathered from the sandless Pacific beach

an armamentarium of pebbles for your windowpane,

in case I got the courage to call. 

But I didn't, and I won't.

And the daisies I picked for you will dry out

like nostalgia.

Emotions sink in and pile up and are passed between fingers

Like rocks in our palms and pockets. 

i just want to be rid of the guilt.

And I'm manipulative, passive-aggressive, oversensitive, mean.
I've got teeth, dear, I've got teeth.
I only bite the ones I like and you've got fang-marks up and down your arms.

And one year ago, I first loved you!
I saw myself in you and narcissistically fell for our charms.

We have good taste, good taste in everything but sweethearts.
We're in love with ourselves, and self-centered, we break hearts.

Well, maybe that's an exaggeration.
I guess we probably only ever hurt ourselves.