day 17she dreams of the pink swing set under a canopyof leaves, shoes brushing colours of autumnof mud slicked steps, rusted spoons and clearplastic forks turned opaque from grimy handsof lard-filled jars and broken glass,glittering teeth hidden beneath tree shadowsof scratchy hay poking ankles and, below, sharpmetal just peeking through faded itchy yellow:watching, waiting.
day 3you said: there is just something about myths.i thought there's just something about your lips. tell me the myths of your sleepy hometownand the truths of hands held proud in public.i'd like to learn the stories of your skin,the loud silence of heartbeats and bed sheets.
you don't sit beside me in class anymoreyou look like oversized sweaters waiting formr darcy vapid vanilla shows up late toclass with coffee cheeks flushed from cold(but there's more than meets the eye. i likethe flush of your cheeks and last week iwondered if you bite lips or lick them; ifyou'd change my mind on holding hands)gone is your floral perfume soft breathingarm brushing mine proximity pulsing legscrossing blurry profile in peripheral(but now i almost like it better this way. it'seasier to follow concentration as it movesalong your features and i have always beenmore comfortable with distance anyway)
lost in space1there were words once, listen:quiet, soft, like fingers brushing over the fabric of a sweater, tickling your ear, warming, small gusts of heat that spread to your toes, a glinting eye, a curved mouth, a promise.there were words once, listen:hard, rough, like metal scraping over concrete, bruising, marking your arms, legs, ribs, even your spine, purple and black blossoming on dark skin, yellowing until silence, an apology.there were words once, listen:listen!now there are no words, only the deafening roar of silence.2there are words now, listen:the old stars whisper to each other. they have discovered the secret of patience, a conversation lasting the ages. a single word may take years upon years to travel and you have to know which way to send it. careful, precise, or you may tell a stranger you miss them.you can hear the sound of these words, like fast cars on a track, restless and enduring. the faster they travel, the slower time moves, slowing rapidly until it sto
sharp nailsthere is a pattern ofveins on my right thighthat looks like the long,blue bones of a handsometimes these thin,spindly fingers crawlup my veins andarteries to clasp aroundmy heart, tug on theback of my eyes,dotting and blackingmy visionthey scrape the nervoussystem and i think iused to pray to settlethe sickness
from 3429 ft.two years ago from paris, saskatoon looked like a small solar system, hazy with rain and cold. three days ago from toronto, it is midday and foggy, a thick blanket of grey masking tiny grey buildings cut by a tiny grey river. but the feeling is the same and i want to reach across the aisle to hold my sister's hand much the same as two years ago, russell reaching for my hand, any hand, two changed souls unprepared to face the sameness of home.but the feeling is not the same. we are not two changed souls: we are just happy ones, 'satisfied with the trip' ones, and i do not hold hands when i am happy.
may 3i press tissue paper to the skinabove my ankle, apply pressure,breathe.try not to think about the red andsearing and the itch in my hand.-i decide i want to cover my body inink, beautiful and expensive.-my grandmother asks me why iwant a tattoo.i tell her, "i think they'rebeautiful."-five years of thinking pass.birds fly across my wrist and i trapthem midflight.beautiful and expensive.
parenting 101when our children wake up screaming in the middle of the nightor crawl into our beds, we have a list of reassurances:"it was just a nightmare" and"it was just the shadows" and"it was just your imagination"until they, too, are desensitized and locked in a cage,condition themselves to be blind and sane like the rest of us
hide and seeka shadow lives underneathmy bed. when it sees abare foot or hand danglingover the edge, it reachesout, torn between hungerand companionship
EvolutionEvolutionis a silent process of changingwe realise from the result.It Can't Be The Target.
A DefinitionWords that mean the same as ‘gay’:Happy, bright, joyful.Queer and homosexual.Words that do not mean the same as ‘gay’:Weak, stupid, lame.Evil, abomination, shame.You got that?Okay.Because ‘gay’Is not an insult.
I'm Going NoWhereI'm Going NoWhere, But My Way Is Certain.
NadirHis shotgun smilesays it all -smell of rabbits matingin the basementkeeps him up at nightand he likeshis neighbor's daughteras she stands on tip-toein the back yard,peering through his windowor drowning kittens in the river.He keeps a razorin his bedroom,siphons after-shave througha loaf of breadand calls it magic,remembering how his teacherfound him naked,shoved into a closetand how she putmarbles in his mouthto keep him from speaking.His mother only laughedand told him to washhis clothes outin the bathtuband not drip wateron her carpet.Don't leave a witnesshis best friend said.Pictures have earsand walls can feellike familywhen God has seen your secrets.
ExelixiΕξέλιξηείναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγήςπου αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
LostLost –Like a vagabond.Split – At a four-waystreet, past any signsthat I comprehend.If I had I had it my way,I would cruise on the highwayand never stop.
Team In our days the word "team" only refersto basketball and football teams.
pillow talkthere are thousandsof tongues i couldmemorize; new wordsfor love tucked betweenteeth often bitingtoo hard.my chapsticked lipscould learn to bow togrammar laws incountries i'llnever visit.i could master writingsymphonies in syntax,spend hours penningvolumes in languagesof longing and love,but i'll never find aphrase that fits youthe way your body fitto mine, back bent.i'll never find a namefor how our lips tuckedtogether, for my handsin your hair, for therapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the skyand see the stars as millionsof possibilities for us to wrap our handsaround and try, picking and choosingour favorite constellations like applesin the fruit aisle of a grocery store.We talk about our dreamsof leaving this townfar behind and far away,but we don’t talk about howleaving home means leaving each otherand each constellation we wrap our handsaround propels us into completely differentdirections. We want to hold on to each otheras much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,but we can’t have both,and that scares us.We look up into the skyand see how big the galaxy iseven when we can’t see 90% of itand we are suddenly aware of howsmall we actually are, barely grains of sand,barely specks of dust, barely here at all.We stop looking up and lookdown at our feet shuffling,worried and afraid for each otherbecause we barely sleep and failinga class means failing high school,failing to get into the dream college,fai
reverberationshey skinny boy, you walk like you know where you're goingand when you kiss me, i don't know what to say ( and it sort ofreverberates between us, doesn't it? )