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;
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
*inspired by Richard Siken's poetry
Daybreak was smeared across
the upstairs window like
frosting on a week old cake.
I woke up with the feel of
your august fingers on my temples,
rubbing circles the way
you used to do when I was nervous.
It was comforting then
but now it haunts me.
Jamie, I'm mad at myself
for dreaming of ghosts
and maroon sweaters.
It only means that I'm dwelling on this,
on the shadow that you left behind,
living inside its cold attic chest,
breathing out stale carnations
through silvery lungs.
I miss you, Jamie.
I miss the iron butterflies
*wrote this with my best friend.
Underground railroad tracks run
through this cowboy town and
your vulnerable heart,
splitting in half,
makes you groan whenever
I bury my face in your neck
and unbutton your shirt,
tracing circles around
your trans-Atlantic hipbones.
Caleb, you are splayed;
sometimes here with me,
other times, nowhere in
the foreseeable future of
our baseball swimming hole days,
and loving you isn't easy
or sweet like condensed milk
and holiday music playing
in a fireplace-lit room.
Like a ghost with vindictive fingers,
There's a monster growling under my bed
but I lost interest in him ages ago
and now you're the only thought
occupying my mind in
the vanilla wallpaper darkness.
Late November clings
to your lashes and birthday stars
collide into the lark pond,
their orange flames
suicide attempts glowing
near our neighborhood.
Violin strings mark your palms
and I stare as our hands brush
and snow appears in puffs on
the rooftops of old colonial homes.
5th Avenue was built for all
the drunken socialites but
you and I wander here because
we have nothing to lose,
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
*inspired by Brian and Michael from Queer as Folk :P
The sun dies in your irises as you lie in bed,
clutching a joint between your fingers and
savoring the memory of a fight on your lips.
Friend, you start the evening off like a burst
of color and light brighter than a carousel,
but towards the end of the rave, you're
already bored and empty so you turn
to hospitals and dramatic suicidal promises,
threatening to jump if I don't hold your hand.
Manipulating the seasons in Pittsburgh,
my friend, you drive me wild.
But somehow, I'm always playing this game.
We wanted to make history.
We wanted to make this an
epic thing filled with riots
and dangerous kissing
behind liquor stores,
feeling the thrill of
being chased to death,
having our hearts
beating on the edge.
Or perhaps, that was what I wanted.
Darling, you only wanted waffles,
sugary and tasty at 8 A.M;
holding hands while listening
to Harvey Milk on the radio.
"You gotta give them hope," he'd said.
You always liked a good
watching from the window
as it ripped open the sea
and spilled its foamy secrets
all over the harbor.
You claim she's making you restless
with her strings of costume jewelry
and celebrity perfume that reeks
of insecurity and family issues.
But despite all your complaining,
the way I see things, your heart
is just as isolated as this girl's
and you two aren't that different.
She thinks it's funny to call her
peers names that she dug up
out of her dad's expensive yard,
covered in undeserving soil
and pubescent bacteria.
"Dance with me," she says.
"So everyone will think you're normal."
And you make excuses as
disco balls throw cliches
against the rundown walls of a gym
Hey everyone! Long time no post. A lot has changed since I've last been on here. Where do I start?
Well I'm a "friend" with my ex. I'm still deeply in love with her. But I'm trying not to be an evil ex, you know? It's actually a lot worse even though we aren't together. The fighting. It's like neither of us feels like their's closure. It's hard not to want to kiss her or hold her hand. I have to stop myself when I talk sometimes. I accidentally call her "babe" or "love" or whatever else I nicknamed her.
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
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
So i came out to my mom after 9 years and she basically said that im in denial and i need to get help. Everyday she acts like nothings wrong. Its like she lives in this little bubble and everything that changes her plan or doesnt make our family look perfect its wrong. And she thinks that im pushing the fact that im gay in her face. And im not. She tries to buy my silence with gifts . But i wont put up with it. She says that im going against everything shes ever told me, and that my life choice effects her and me.
*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.
*warning: this is darker than my previous ones.*
- They told me you were a tease
with sunset streaks in your
But your beautiful and damaged
grin took my breath away.
Whiskey cherries and overgrown
lawns created the perfect
mood for dancing and we
were seduced by the sexy
consequences of carefree
weekends and no supervision.
I hooked my fingers in the collar of your
preppy polo shirt as we stumbled into
the best drunken kiss that
made me feel invincible.
"Your lashes are amazingly long,"
you slurred against my neck.
So my last few journal entries have been about me being depressed and what not. I'd love to say it's getting better, and some days i feel like it is...but as of right now, I just feel lost in life...and alone in life. I'm in the middle of a big change as I'll be re-entering school in the fall, and it's making me look at myself and how i want to be viewed and how I want to act, which is to be myself. This means telling people I'm gay. However...it is so hard to even fathom me telling my friends let alone my family. In terms of where to say it, how to say it, how to start saying it.