Dublin stars play tag between
Rowan leaves as the plastic
party lights in my room
match their sad glow.
And my dreams are
made of notebook paper,
Adam, cigarette burns
and broken frames of
your stained-berry smile,
glistening with last summer's dewdrops.
I have your favorite pocketknife
stashed away in my closet
under a pile of old wool sweaters
and yearbook photos that
our folks never saw.
the carved symbols we left
on that park bench
and the crayon marks, also?
I suppose they're still there,
though I haven't gone to check
It's too late to call you, now, friend,
and you're probably just pulling off
the road and checking into
some motel with a vintage
sign glowing neon in east Texas.
The truth is, boy, that I wouldn't
know what to say if I could get
a hold of you on the phone
in my current state because
the last time I saw you,
it was raining in bucketfuls
of liquid pearls and your
mother was waving
goodbye on the porch,
as though you were
going off to war and
it'd be the last time
she would see your
hazelnut eyes shining
and that dopey grin.
Boy, I needed to say a lot of things;
My life is still a complete mess and everything is confusing me.
I finally got my license, my parents are still afraid to let me drive alone, it's understandable, but last Monday my parents finally did and I was really nervous and it was ok, but there's something weird and it's that when I drive, I mostly space out, get lost inside my head and it takes a while to realize what I'm doing.
Trucks speed through my turquoise dreams,
taking fathers away from
their disappointed sons.
And I'm stuck in a dizzy spell,
always searching for mine,
even when he's sleeping
only a few doors down
the hall of our North Sea Texas house.
Friend, you showed up one summer day
at the public pool when
I was learning to swim
and grabbed my arm as
I thrashed in the deep end,
my heart panicking as
it thumped chlorine and fear.
But you kept me from drowning,
boy, like an angel of
the kill me-kiss me sort.
You weren't afraid to show me
the Aztec flowers tattooed across
The playground looks broken in
December's plastic moonlight.
The basketballs have turned
to orange ghosts on the court
and the purple clouds above
resemble one-eyed teddy bears, smoking cigars.
You hold my hand between zombie oak trees
and stutter through a Michael Jackson song.
"Ben, the two of us.." you whisper,
then press your lips against mine.
It's surreal but I swallow your laughter
and stick my hand inside your jacket,
making you gasp as I trace
your shy muscles.
Boy, I want to scare off all
the bad memories that still
linger in this park;
the jump ropes and
*inspired by the song "Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene.
Golden red, your arms were a sinewy fence around
my form as we sat on the fire escape overlooking
a schizophrenic town.
Your lips tickled my cheek and I stroked the back
of your head, twisting
my fingers in your burnt wheat-colored strands.
"Remember when we used to get excited over
the smallest things," I asked.
"Like kissing awkwardly and
stumbling through doorways,
dragging in the scent of fresh
cut grass and angel's sweat?"
"Yeah," you said. "But let's play it out again,
baby, before Philadelphia
There were no goodbyes scrawled
on the bed frame,
no apologies painted on the floor
with tea and chalk.
Those words didn't
exist in your vocabulary, lover,
because you weren't
supposed to feel anything.
But then I came along with
my searching blue eyes and
demanding lips and you couldn't
just get rid of me like all the rest, no..
The seductive rain hit the windows
with an angry hand and made
the sky shrivel up like vanilla skin
and we stripped off our clothes
under a cluster of police lights;
strawberry red and turquoise fear.
You kissed my mouth like a Sadie
To a lot of high school students our final year must go out with a bang-whether that means getting a whole new wardrobe, showing a side that people never thought to have seen of you or getting a date for all the social events that are going on that graduating students would most definitely want to take part in. Now, the main problem is that although it’s nice to go to these events with your closest friends and create the best of memories with them, a small part of me wishes that I do that with a potential partner.
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
Lime green lightning bugs lit up the road late on a school night
and you squeezed my hand while lip-syncing to Ed Sheeran.
Inside your car, we were safe and invisible, baby.
You rested your cheek on my shoulder and I fell
for the dangerous tints of maple in your irises.
Maybe it was naive or maybe it was real;
either way, we threw caution to the wind
along with the ash from our convenience
store cigarettes and kissed hotly like nobody could stop us.
You were someone I wanted to keep forever;
tie you up with imaginary rope and trap you
I guess you don't really need to know this... Nameless journal and whoever reads this. But I love you, so you need to know about me.
I think I'll call you Jennifer.
Again, I am called Rina. My real name is Marina. I'm named after Counselor Troi from Star Trek. Um...
If I were to be an animal, I would be a cat.
I like cats. I own 6. (My avi is my cats Loki and Danny. They're both girls.)
I am 14 years of age and I have a semi-blog thingy that I devote a lot of my thoughts and free time to.
It's called "Gay Talk" on Wattpad.
Welll... where to start.
My name is Rina.
Not my real name, but... YEAH!!!
I write. A lot...
Less than I used to. I really miss it.
But I go on Queer Attitude a lot (LGBT site)
And I post what I write on Wattpad (Writing site)
And this is like both of them combined; like writing for gay people.
Not that Watty doesn't have gay people... but...
There's less Straight people!
Okai, that was Stracist.
but everyone's a little bit Stracist sometimes.
Although there's a lot more Gaycist people... and even more racist people.
Bucketfuls of gosling rain pour down
on the neighbor lady's plants as
I fiddle with the rawhide bracelet
you gave me for good luck.
It's ironic because if there's
anyone drowning here, it's you,
struggling to breathe in
the notorious deep end.
And yet, my throat tightens
every time I see you holding hands
with the transfer student from Biloxi,
the one with sunny hair
and a cruel wasteland grin.
He knows I'm jealous
so he takes advantage of
the celebrations in
the French Quarter,
pulling you closer in
his noose and water embrace.
It's strange how you're so
*title belongs to John Green.*
You were a questionable night and strong arms;
coffee ground eyes and marijuana-coated lips
turned up in a cute twenty-four hour smirk.
You and I were shoe boxes filled with
boy-meets-boy hormones wrapped
tight in the construction paper summer before college.
Neither of us knew what was really
going on when we kissed passionately on your couch
the afternoon of Thanksgiving.
And before I could explain my feelings,
you fell asleep with your head on my chest,
so I just ran my fingers through your
goldenrod blond hair and thought about
The antique gold leaves swirl eerily
in the courtyard and I find you sitting
alone on a stone bench near where
the children like to play cup and ball.
But they can't see you, Larkin.
I'm the only one aware of your presence.
Decades of being sneered at
have made you cold to most humans.
So it was shocking when you decided
to open a window and let me catch
a glimpse of the frightened boy inside.
You are a walking tragedy in dapper clothing;
all the misunderstood pieces
of Prince Charming's dark past coming to life
in the flickering gaze of your shamrock eyes.
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
*about a girl this time :)*
You were singing karaoke against
the mechanical stars that peeked
out of the see-through sky above
And I stood in a crowd of friends,
but nonetheless impressed
by your voice that sounded
like a bluebird on
a rainy Monday morning.
Girl, the brown daisy dress
you wore with sparrow leggings
did something to my sanity
because I went up to you
after the show and helped you
down from the stage
as people clapped,
clinking glasses of
You smiled shyly,
making me feel very seventeen,
The late November night smokes a pack of
Hershey cigarettes and it's as if nobody
understands how those toxic jokes
make me feel trapped in
this claustrophobic place.
So I have no choice but to
go home and pick up my boxing gloves,
preparing myself for another round of bullying.
You may call me proud but don't exaggerate.
I've been pushed around and
shoved into dumpsters long enough
to know that discrete strength is
the key to survival.
It's about teachers turning a blind eye
and death threats in the cafeteria.
Baby, it's about roller coaster feelings
I've been thinking lately and I've decided that I'm going to wait three months and if nothing happens between me and my friend (the one I like) then I'm just gonna give up and try my hardest to move on because if things keep on as they are, I'm gonna be feeling bad and lovesick for the rest of my life... I'm also thinking about coming out to my mommy this summer... I have no clue how she's gonna react but I'm just hoping for the best.