Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Little Something For The Straight Man Who Haunts The Only Gay Bar In Town, Looking For Me

I am behind bars at the bar,
parading myself like a prize at the fair,
but my intended audience is never there,
just this one guy, with grey hair and grey skin who always wants to buy me drinks,
fumbles his fingers across my pendant and mumbles pedantic, pretentious nonsense about how his soul is pink,
printed with my name,
and my eyes go on a journey from his smug face to the back of my head.

He tells me that my beautiful eyes are wasted on the beautiful girl across the room (he uses a slur to describe her, but I will call her beautiful),
and half of me thinks he’s right,
because me having a flacid fan club around me all night seems to have given her the wrong impression about who I am intending to attract,
and then I am right back where I started from,
night after night,
bored to baby blue tears as he babbles on, despite my blatant disinterest.

I have been polite,
and I have been puerile.
I have said it in so many languages to try and show the girl across the room that my tongue is cultured and intelligent,
but she can’t hear me over the blithering idiot that haunts a home he will never belong in.
It doesn’t matter what I say,
because he sees a pretty dress as a pretty clear sign that I’m just “going through a phase” and he sees himself as some kind of King of conversion therapy,
(It is just a piece of fabric, and he is just an unnecessary man…)
so he persists, undeterred by my constant resistance,
because the world has always belonged to boring men, so he doesn’t know any better, and women never know their own minds anyway, according to his phallic philosophy.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

How Insensitive

Each setting of the sun,
minute and moment brings me closer to you.
I can feel the fire of your arrival,
itching underneath my skin,
and though I’m still lost in my lonely lullabies,
fast asleep by the time the day begins,
I wake up when I feel your hand in mine,
every time,
without fail.

You’re on the way,
and I don’t know if I will ever be ready, to just be happy,
because how can I learn to live anew, when all my ghosts gather by my bedside?
They stop the clocks, shaking me from my sleep at 3am every morning,
to remind me how many seconds have slipped through my shaking hands,
and how unprepared I am to be truly loved.

Last night,
I rose from my nightmares and noticed that I only ever cried when I gave myself a moment to meet my memories.
I cried for the girl who cried in dark, windowless bathrooms,
her panic, trapped in her throat, as she scrubbed her skin until it bled, to get foreign fingertips from her body.
I cried for how cruel I was.
How insensitive I must have seemed, when I stared back from the mirror,
unmoved by her tears. How cruel I was, when I made her go back to the bed that she shared with her greatest fear.

I will never talk to you about it,
and you’ll feel excluded,
untrusted,
my cruelty continuing,
tearing apart a new, untouched soul.
I’ll never apologise in person,
but your face will join my ghosts,
and I will never sleep again.