Light slips through the blinds, slivers of gold illuminating the room. Chains engraved with dates and memories bind him to his bed, eyes open because there are less flattering things to reminisce about when they're closed.

(Remember that one time four years ago?)

Groggy composure contorts into a grimace. He groans, wiping a sluggish hand over his face at an attempt to clean the memory from his conscious. It does nothing more than cover his vision with temporary darkness, and the memory resurfaces, a hot mess of familiar faces and an embarrassing past self.

Long hair and a terrible fashion sense. Graphic tees and camo pants.

He's found a better style.

(Though, anything could be considered better than the graphic-tee-and-camo-pants combination. Even his birthday suit, because at least he loves his body more than he did all those years ago. He likes to think that it shows with how he carries himself. And the fact that he actually has some meat on his bones, now.)

He shifts, thinking that the smaller movements might give him the energy to actually wake up. His weighted blanket covers his waist, but not his chest, and after an eternity of about two minutes (in disassociation time), he realizes that it's fucking freezing, and lifts a (not actually) fifty pound arm to pull the blanket up to cover him in a coccoon of what he wished was an actual person. Or maybe a cat.

(But oh, the voice he's beaten back with a stick starts to mock, you know who you wish was here with you, cuddling and warm in this cold room of yours—)

Another eternity of cringing, flinching away at awkward interactions with her, because who the Hell knows how to act around attractive women? His face burns, but at least the blush warms his body in his room, frigid from winter and a fan left on for gray noise.

The fan. He focuses on it, the noise of the three blades working in perfect mechanical synchrony to pull him back into the lazy river of a thoughtless mind, streams of words that lead to a void that he will never truly recall when he returns from his place in space. An empty canvas painted with invisible ink, and—

And thud goes something outside his bedroom door, and his soul falls back to his bed.

(How poetic.)

The birds sing outside his window, and he lifts his head to watch dust trickle in the sunlight, the occassional shadow of a sparrow greeting him.

South-facing windows were a terrible creation, he thinks absent-mindedly, eyes half-glaring at the sun and its position directly in front of his comfortable bed. Extra pillows piled up in front of the side closest to the window, so when he was completely horizontal, he would (usually) be perfectly hidden from the blinding rays.

Nothing more painful than a south-facing window.

Nothing—

—a quiet puff of laughter, not humorous but awkward, confused; eyes flicker everywhere around the room and you are oblivious, blind because of infatuation, because a confession could never be rejected, not by you—

—alright, maybe there were things.

Guilt grabs and twists his gut into a nauseous concoction, because he was an asshole when he was younger. Being raised by a narcissist does that to someone, but it's not like he isn't an asshole now. It's just different— he's a bitch because he doesn't let people push him around.

He's a bitch because he speaks his mind, and since he's AFAB* (he wished it meant A Fabulous, Arrogant Bastard), people like him aren't supposed to speak their mind. But he does it anyway, even if the repercussions make him add another terrible memory to cringe about late at night when he's trying to sleep.

(Who needs sleep?)

After all, that's what coffee's for.

Coffee. What time is it? The thought repeats, echoesechoesechoes until he finally has the energy to push himself up. Slow, perhaps to delay the inevitable for a few seconds longer. He grabs a sweater, sweatpants, slips them on.

Feels like that's used up all of the energy he has, and he blinks slowly. Moves like a sloth, because don't they move slow to save energy? But he curses at himself, because dumbass, you're not a sloth.

Manages to (finally) get out of bed, finds his phone. Looks at the time.

Then he hauls ass back under the covers, because the inevitable can be delayed for a little while longer.

_

*AFAB = Assigned Female At Birth.

Yes I'm questioning my identity. No I don't care about pronouns, this just always happens when I'm PMS-ing and I felt like writing it out. Yes this is about me.

(tw: sexual assault)

so cute, so handsome

kind regards and chaos wrapped up in a ransom.

i. do as she says, duct tape around your features

that she doesn’t like ’cause you’re a foul fowl creature

ii. peacock, we stop, kneel with our knees locked

she lost, legs crossed, dreams tossed for his cost

iii. he is a pure boy at twenty-three /

but she’s a dirty slut at sweet sixteen

iv. she is a model, a perfect queen

and he got a “lapdance” but not for free.

_

every 73 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted.

every 9 minutes, that victim is a child.

there is no joy in a fragile existence / glass waves crash in my skull

blade dyed ebony with crimson undertones / satan incarnate smiles

devil but you’re not my advocate / give the snake’s name to the fae

call me what you wish / but my name is not four letters reflected

harbinger of sins, i see you always / sharing the seven over thin ice.

where is my adam / cracked ribs and punctured lungs cry for forgiveness

desperation, drowning in familial bonds liquefied / qualified not for life

quality not for consumption / stolen from those more deserving of it than i

because i am empty / charon’s boat visiting, asking to pay what i owe

broken teeth and shattered dreams / cannot pay for eighteen years wasted.

i am not myself / my story etched into poetic fallacies that i do not remember

body scarred with mistakes / when i am not me i am a husk, but i wither regardless

forget to breathe and see heaven / we are an abandoned species, this i hold dear

on eagle’s wings we shed blood / where is the freedom palpable, lord and savior

i do not pray because i am not worthy of your voice / father and son, holy spirit.

i do not pray because  you will not answer me / pleas carried on ancient letters

melted into marble statues / we live in history but we are not all remembered

ancestors watching from afar and no temple worships them / they are forgotten

i will be forgotten just as they / ashes to ashes, dust to cremation and death

i will be forgotten just as they / and no hands will hold me as i slip away.

black lives matter protests for equity in the united states

rioters, violence in the streets, people terrified for their lives

we want peace, we want justice, we want equality. we receive:

violence, disgust and rage from those who refuse to understand

we kneel with our hands raised, masks on, voices loud.

you look at us and sneer, spittle flying and handcuffs ready

you arrest us for our opinion, the truth that we speak

you look at the seven percent of violence and riots instead

of the ninety-three percent of the peaceful protesting.

election day. there is no landslide, but there are absentees.

you are in the streets, we are terrified for our lives, and you,

you are angry that you will no longer have that power.

when we watch you repeat our history, we sit in silence, in awe.

when you are protesting to stop the counting of ballots,

we say that it hurts when no one wants to listen to you, right?

when you storm buildings without masks and full of rage,

we say that this looks familiar, but there are no rubber bullets.

when you scream at the top of your lungs to be heard,

we say that we did the same thing, but we were suffocated instead.

no matter how the election turns out, this is our country,

but you are ready to fight your fellow countrymen, aren't you?

no matter what happens in the future, we are all american.

when you threaten to take our rights away, we are beneath you.

no matter what we do to show you the double-standard,

you are blind to the truth, blind to your hypocrisy, to your privilege.

no matter if you walk in the footsteps of those before you,

remember that we protested to be heard. you answered with violence.

no matter your skin color, we are supposed to love you.

but if you happen to be white, we will love you more.

the words scream endlessly, tirelessly, ceaselessly

remaining in my brain in my main state of pain

holding, hoarding, balance abhorring - the horror

tore her away from my eyes and the blindness -

kindness, what is kindness? god, i wish it was 

mindless - an action taken without thought, caught

up in the motion - a continuous explosion of color

thrown into the gutter - my imagination flutters

like a camera shutter - blinking too fast, too fast

"you're too rash," words uttered, a mutter too 

quick to grab - a flame flickers to cut her to shreds

paper shredder, "it could've been better," and a

tear falls - was that my cheek or yours? of course,

hypothetically i summon a smile, magic and bile

force it deep down - deep down, turn the frown

upside-down and slay the demon of depression

impression, impressionistic, i'm not pathetic

"just forget it," the words are warbled and i

speak

but the words are free like birds, the sobbing assured

internally i fall to my knees and screech like those 

crickets i used to hear when i was younger - brother,

when did i get so soft, emotions aloft and i - i

i stare blankly at the white canvas in front of me and

raise my hand. miss mannequin ma'am's neck creaks

as she snaps her neck to stare at me, and her marionette

earrings click and click and clack against her bright

birch face.

somebody destroyed my canvas, ma'am, i say, voice shaking

but i'm hiding the knife behind my back and the matches 

are hidden in my desk compartment - i can't bring myself

to tell her that i just wanted her to look at me, and

she mutters a "hopeless," with a clickety-clackety of her

wooden george washington teeth, and i smile something 

crooked, because all i wanted was just a taste of

attention.

sticky note journals dedicated to my soulmate / soft words and falsified arrogance encoded in every line

you're out there living without me and it angers me / i hope you're doing alright, please take care

when we meet i'll know, regardless of what i thought you'd be like / types and labels wash away with ease

will it matter what i look like to you? will you care? / will i really know it's you when our eyes meet?

i want to warm your heart, your hands, lovingly / lovingly, unlike those who hurt us in the past

because no matter how beautiful your soul is, your reflection shows the scars of harsh poison hidden under thinly veiled microaggressions / walking on needles so as not to offend everyone, but they show you half of the kindness you give.

and please understand that i have trouble telling the truth / feelings crumpled into paper balls and burned for s'mores

i'm sorry for hurting you, i wish i could verbalize, but my parents never taught me how to apologize / please tell me it's okay, because my fear of losing you overtakes the importance of every other event in my life, please tell me we're okay.

letters in wax-sealed envelopes for my soulmate / soft words locked in a box that decay in a wooden time capsule

i wish you were here, tears streaming as i bury what i want to say / i wish you were here with me, but you aren't.

i wish you were here / but i'm not good enough for you yet.

She is wonderful in the way that Medusa is wonderful. She instills fear within those who ever try to wrong her, and when you catch her eye, her gaze is so cold that she could freeze you with even the smallest of glances. 

At first, you watch her from afar, in awe, wondering how someone could exude that much power. Eventually, you approach her and, once she knew that you meant no harm, she let you in. You learn that she went through hell and had to crawl her way out of it, but she raises her head high, rolls her shoulders back, and she walks as if she owns everything around her, because her parents taught her that she deserves to feel like a goddess, even if everyone else treats her like a monster.

She has the confidence to convince you that she does own everything, too, but you eventually learn that she lives in a studio apartment not far from campus, making ends meet while also being a full-time student.

(You offered her your help after you gather enough courage - you were better off than her, and she knew it - but all she did was thank you and kindly refuse. She does visit your nicer, but less organized apartment every once in a while. Maybe you'll eventually gather more courage and ask her to live with you.)

If you were younger and saw her walking around campus, or even around the city, you would aspire to be like her. She has power over many, but never abuses it. You hear many of your peers gossiping about her, saying that she's full of herself, but only because she has the confidence that some easily mistake of arrogance. 

But oh, is she kind. She is kind, and she is soft when the warm light from the setting sun hits her just right, and she is soft when she stares up at the stars from her studio apartment's balcony, and she's certainly soft she she looks at you. You're the only one she looks at like that, and it always makes you feel like you're loved. Because you are. And she is, too.

At first, you would freeze when she looked at you, but now you only do that when you take her in for everything she is. Her beauty makes you speechless, her smile steals all the air from your lungs, and when her hand brushes against yours, you feel lighter than a feather.

If you could go back in time and thank yourself for talking to her and getting to know her, you would. But for now, thanking her for being in your life is enough.

and i wanted you to know that it's okay to feel sad, because when i'm choking on thorns in my throat, breaking from the pressure of what-ifs and what all i could be, those tears are locked behind the door that my parents forced them behind. because i was sensitive, they told me to stop crying. when i was happy and energetic, they told me to calm down and shut up. when i locked myself in my room, they told me i needed to go out more often, and when i left my room, they asked me what happened to get me to leave it.

so when you're drowning, suffocating, blinded by the shadow of yourself and the thoughts of your mistakes are keeping you up late at night, i want you to know that bottling up everything only creates hell inside of you, but i can't tell you to change. i can't force you to change. but i'm proud of you. even though you've been through nightmares, you still have the capacity to dream of a future that's better than where you are now. because it exists, and it's waiting for you, and it might take a while, but you'll get there.

you will. keep fighting. and it's okay to not always be happy. it's okay to feel numb, it's okay to feel anxious and angry and frustrated because the future doesn't seem as bright as it used to. but it is. it's okay. it will be okay.

you'll just have to see it for yourself when you get to that point in time where you can say that you're okay. and i'll be proud of you, whether i'm there or not.

you had wings and i was jealous of their beauty.

i longed for them, but my hands never reached you from the ground i melted into / the sky is so cold, so empty

but i watched as you were free, dancing with galaxies and greeting black holes, spacial anomalies / and you became the warmth when there was no sun, then you became my sun

your elegance, your fluidity / something more than a sparrow but no more than an eagle given a gift that it did not take as such.

you were the stars i watched at night, twinkling in my eyes and framing my tears in the moonlight / my sun, carefully placing those paintings with every droplet rolling down my cheeks so that i might have been reminded that she was my anchor

as i could not join you, freedom trapped behind my shadow, you effortlessly placed parts of me in your museum, watching them carefully with me every night so that no thief stole them away.

you showed your love in ways that i understood / and that was enough.

but was it enough for you?

icarus with his flame, i could not hold you when you cried / you would burn me, and in turn you suffered in solemn singularity. i could gather your tears, but i do not have a sky to hold them in as you did.

you grieved in a way i could not comprehend, and our game of telephone ended when the red string snapped from strain. / i watched as your wings, so frail, folded under the harsh winds, and you fell.

but you did not fall into my arms.

The mirror reflects my greatest mistakes, so I break it. I used to breathe you in, oxygen, euphoria, my ecstasy. But an hourglass’ sand stays stagnant without a hand to turn the glass figure anew, and without you I froze, lost in a world without my other half.

How are you doing? Glass fragments drop silently, pathetically onto the tan carpet, and I wish I could hear more, feel more, but without you I am a husk, shedding my skin at the beginning of summer, and disappearing at the end of fall.

It’s so cold without you.

My sun, my warmth, my light. Where did you go?

You left without saying goodbye. The maple leaves fly in the wind, spinning, spinning, dancing without a partner and I cannot help but watch in awe, but never in envy, as I know their song and my feet move without thinking, wondering if I will ever find you again in my life.

I will learn to live without you. The glass scars my skin, I step on sharp edges and they remind me that I will learn to live without you.

I will learn, but I will never forget you. The sun will rise, and I will watch her, thinking of you.