Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Wrote This When We Were Fighting

I won’t compromise my heart again,

because nobody can know all the answers,

for the questions everybody asks,

and why do I have to say anything,

or do anything,

at this point?

All I’ll have when I die,

are the thoughts I found,

inside a hyperactive head,

and what I did with them.

Like the time I wrote a beautiful record for the man I loved,

about how I knew he was going to betray me,

and then I lead that betrayal into my bedroom,

by the ribbon around its neck,

and I lay beside it,

while he fucked me,

one last time,

in his usual,

unsatisfying fashion,

before he fucked her,

in the exact same way.

I smiled at her,

as I sighed,

and screamed,

in the way he expected,

knowing I should feel dejected,

but secretly relieved,

that I could stop waiting for happiness to die.

Or the time,

that I spent a summer finding myself,

in sonnets,

haikus and frantic free verse,

telling my mother that I was gay,

that I was barren,

that I was breaking a little more every day,

hoping with each reveal,

that she’d still love me the same,

but never quite being sure,

because I wasn’t sure anybody had,

or anybody would,

and I think I was just feeling lonely,

and projecting,

because life is so fucking isolating,


I wrote this when we were fighting,

you asked me why I wouldn’t say that I loved you.

You’d told me twice,

once in Gaelic,

because you thought I wouldn’t understand

(Thanks duolingo),

and once on the phone,

as you came on your hands,


swallowing the words back,

as soon as they had escaped,

and then we pretended to fall asleep,

but I saw you at 4,

stalking my instagram story,

as I filled it with words,

that were shy,

about what you mean to me.

I won’t compromise my heart again,

or so I say,

every time I get close,

when I see you pull up outside my house,

or you text me in the morning with too many emojis for a man of your age.

I won’t.

I accidentally called you my boyfriend on twitter, and it’s too late to delete it now.

I won’t.

I put you as my emergency contact, because I assume you’d be interested to know if I died.

I won’t.

Your daughter followed me on tumblr and I didn’t preemptively block her.

I won’t.

But I will,

if it means so much to you.

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