Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Am I Truthful? Am I Honest?

It’s happening again.
All day,
my mind has been lost to what you last said,
awake and asking questions,
late in the evening, after many drinks had been had.
Ever present doubt is so much clearer with an unclear head.
Something about the way you said it, with such sadness, such remorse,
but of course, I am transparent, like a galled ghost, under your gaze.
It hurt when you asked me, with a casual tone.
Am I truthful?
No, probably not.

Am I honest?
Let me be clear,
every thing I’ve ever told you is something that I wanted to be true,
so in a sense, I never deceived or damaged you,
but the road to hell is paved with pure thoughts and nobody’s thoughts are purer than mine,
in most cases. I swear, it’s just sometimes,
all my intentions get addled and I am saddled with how she looks at me,
and then, you see, I start lying to take the edge off how much the truth really scares me.
No, I know, it’s not what you wanted to hear.

It isn’t what I wanted either,
like everyone, I am acutely aware of what some people want me to be,
instructed by the poorly constructed rules of normal, healthy, family friendly values,
killed before I’ve even lived,
enchanted by the girl who stares back from the mirror, and the girl who stares up from the tinder profile I gingerly swipe right on, while ignoring all the perfectly charming men.
Get me another drink,
in penance for your impatience and invasiveness.
Remember me however you like,
let me be honest and truthful, in your mind.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Pride Month 2021, Writing

Flashback – Send Her To Me

Maybe death is in the air.

I wouldn’t know,

it’s not like it rides in on a horse,

these days.

I watched the news last night,

waiting in silence,

as walls close in,

on every dream destination,

that I thought I’d escape to.

I called my grandparents last night,

letting them know I cared,

like it was the last time,

like life’s really ending,

fires finding their way to every corner of my mind,

as I scan empty shelves,

wondering if the apocalypse could spare me a second,

to decide if I’m really done.

I watch the flag,

from a bench by the ashtrays,

outside your office,

red,

white,

blue,

dancing with the wind.

I think I might call you,

like it’s the end of the world,

see if you’ve stopped pretending like we can be friends,

but then I remember,

that you’ve been gone,

since last summer,

and the sobbing wound in my soul,

that I had convinced to stop crying,

is screaming again,

because I have never felt more alone,

and everyone around me feels infectious,

because I watch the news when I’m depressed,

just to feel anxious,

because,

fuck it,

that feels more productive than straight sadness.

I wrote a sapphic song about you,

and it felt like I was giving the last of you away,

so soon after I lost you,

but it was so beautiful,

that I couldn’t hide it anymore,

and I had this regret stuck in my throat,

as I sang,

wishing I’d dragged you to London,

that July.

Why am I thinking about you?

You didn’t have to tell them you loved me.

You could have just pretended we were friends.

Straight girls go to pride all the time,

right?

Angel,

I know you’re gone,

but this could be the last time,

because there’s this thing,

in the air,

death,

like when you left me,

and I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I feel like I can’t talk about you,

because it hurts me,

and it hurts him,

and you’re probably hurting somewhere in heaven,

with your hazel gaze,

glistening with tears,

but you’re stuck in my throat,

and I can’t breathe.

I cross the road,

like I don’t have a care in the world,

ignoring that I might like to see under some cars,

holding every urgent text,

from my heart,

close to my chest,

when I’m just thinking about death,

even though it isn’t destined for me,

because despite fifteen menthols a day,

and self destructive tendencies,

I am in tip top condition,

but hey,

the world is ending,

and I missed you,

for a moment.