Tell me, what do you think about when
the debutante moon has lost her charm
and there's nothing on TV to keep you up past 11 o'clock?
Do your eyes glaze over, remembering
how I used to hold your head on my knee and rake my
fingers through your yellow hair, baby?
Does your chest burn like a joint in the night with
the absurd memory of my mouth pressed to your
shadowy abdomen under turquoise plastic stars?
David, it was heaven, making you come undone!
You were dirty and beautiful; a clean-cut
little show choir first date gone wrong.
And I know I said you weren't my type
The quail rain hits the glass and splits in half against
the windowpane while you're sprawled on the cloud
grey mattress, idly smoking a cigarette.
We are in a green room at the La Quinta
motel near a sunburned Texas highway.
We do this sometimes; drive away from our
respective hometowns and pretend we're
different people with movie type of stories.
Perhaps it's immature but for a few
bank-robbed moments, we are not
lying just to breathe easily.
You understand why my father might disown me
and extend a hand, saying, "Come here," very quietly
Your hands ghost over my arms and land on the springy mattress.
I'm only pretending to sleep so the movement doesn't shock me.
The creamy shadows of trucks on the country highway slip in
through the blinds and flash over our titled forms on my bed.
"You're a terrible actor," you whisper in my ear.
"But that's what I love about you; how everything is so real."
And then your stinging June lips scale down
the side of my neck and I grin, unfazed by
the teasing notes in your gravel and snowflake voice,
reaching my hands up to pull you further
I'm not sure where this came from, but it's how I'm feeling tonight. It's not about anyone specific, just written to an impulse, a thought, I suppose.
The Masochist's Love Song
Use me, take what you want from me, then cast me away
Hurt me, tear me into pieces so I can finally let myself cry
I'll be whatever you want me to be
Any depraved creature of your twisted fancy
These days I feel I fit the literary/social stereotype of the teenage gay boy. The kind of kid who's the subject of some 'young adult' novel, titled 'Not Like Other Boys' or some such nonsense. I'm intelligent, over-dramatic, struggling with inner demons and fond of Judy Garland. Oy. And, to boot, drooling over a gorgeous hunk of man in my drama class.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.
Her mom got the phone bill, found out about our midnight calls, and now I can't talk to her until tomorrow, unless she happens to be online. Grr.
I am tired of hiding things I'm not ashamed of. I love her, I want her and I miss her and there is nothing wrong with that.
I want to get out. Out of this body, out of my school, out of this town.
I want to go far away, where I never have to see all the things that crush my hope and spirit.
I want to go somewhere where I can sleep, and live, and be without having to set up a defensive line.
I want the people I love to stop hurting. I want to be strong enough to protect them.
When I see something stupid and homophobic on facebook, etc., I usually can't stop myself from commenting on that. I did that on a facebook group called "Shakespeare likes the cokc." Now I'm getting hate mail. And it wouldn't be quite as bad if facebook was letting me reply to the latest message. Arg. It's ridiculously stupid and annoying. (These people, not facebook.)
So, I broke up with my girlfriend. It was my fault, and my doing. This is what happened:
Be warned: This entry will be filled with me venting my frustrations at the world and other things, as well as other angst.
The Bones Beneath Your Skin
Others have gazed at your stormy eyes
In anger, madness, even love
Before me, but none of them have seen
The deep and tender fear behind those eyes
The fear I saw when you looked at me,
Your hands tracing the contours of my throat
And I feel it too, an uncertain falter in the caresses of my hands
It is not each other we fear