preter la muroj

I felt safe within these walls
cracked and whispering of millions of memories gone by
and only after I left for the outside world
did I recognize their absence

these other lands feel so foreign to my soft hands
where one mistake renders an angel into a monster
overruling moments of pure euphoria
into one single despicable act in time

you ask me why it takes so long
for people to find each other
amid the waves of humans rolling by in the lean of life
and I reply that I don’t know

maybe I should go back to my island in time
and spend eternity in oblivion, staring at windows into the past
because there is one thing that I have glimpsed on this planet but once
and that is a soul with lilies intertwined within

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maniquí

“your breath is more than enough for me
to paint all the colors of the early morning sky,”
said the cliche, but certainly the blood you cough up
is more than sufficient to stain my sheets a scarlet hue

we’re black and white when the color dies
so just let me bleed here like a Polaroid
waiting for an ever-increasing deadline
and the peace on the heels of a horseman

I’m too young to feel this cold
but you’ve already canned by soul
and shoved it inside a closet full of sweatshirts
in favor of an ever-pulsing motor

my thoughts unwind every damned night when you take my head apart
and lay all the bloody pieces on the floor
this might as well be mannequin maintenance
from how plastic I feel under your touch

from the archives: 3-21-2015

three sets of three words
can make or break a person

the first set of words
a leap of faith
“will they say them back?
will they believe them to be true?”
many people say them
but few actually mean them

the second set of words
a shattered heart, a mind enflamed
a youth with uncontrollable hormones
used so lightly, taken so heavily
for they have lost their meaning through jokes
and little things
and all that erodes the cliff face of definition

the third set of words
cannot be taken back
even when you would do anything to reverse the outcome
for there is little you can do
to heal the broken wings of an angel

“I love you.”
“I hate you.”
“They are dead.”

from the archives: in search of a binder

(Hello there, fellow MayVaneDay fans! It’s been one year since I created this blog and published my first post. Since then, it’s gone from a place where I essentially pretended to be somebody else into a playground of sorts for poetry and planting new writing ideas and hoping that something useful will come up. I hope you have a nice day, and here is one of the few posts from my old blog that still hold up.)

(Over a year ago, back on my old blog, there was a transgender male character named Evan. He was a token character as I was nowhere near the writing skill back then as I am now, and he mostly moped around all day complaining about his dysphoria. But there was one gem that came from his pitiful existence, and this poem was it.)

I think I am a boy
at least I thought I was a boy
I was sure of what I was
everyone here keeps calling me a girl because I have breasts
so what if I have breasts
I am still a boy
that one day
when they took that elastic and bound me
it didn’t feel like bondage
it felt like freedom
the one day that they accepted me
most don’t anymore
“no, Evan, you’re a girl,” they say
“you were born a girl, and you’re always going to be one”
there was a girl once
she used to be a boy
she was around the same age I was
she killed herself because they didn’t accept her
something similar has happened here
but it wasn’t me who tried to
it was my sister
she was driven insane by the conditions here
she wanted to be free
far far away from here
don’t we all
people don’t seem to get it
suicide is not the answer
my sister is still alive
thank you, powers that be, for keeping her safe
there’s still so much to see
when we get out of here, sister, I promise to show you
the few beautiful places left in this world that humans haven’t corrupted yet
and the science teacher from ninth grade has it wrong
you can’t just off yourself when things get bad
you have to keep living
keep breathing
I know there’s a binder
somewhere around here
because before I can free others
I have to free myself

dolĉa somero infano

your dress flaps in the wind like a honeysuckle breeze
reminding me of long since devoured butterscotch dreams
with your sapphire eyes upturned to the sky
and summer’s hazy love on your mind

your smile is like the finest wine
an intoxication that I wouldn’t mind wandering in
but my heart would give out if in wonder for too long
and even the brightest flowers fade after a while

she was naked, she peeled herself daily
bleeding words never to be read
riddled with feelings, better left unsaid
exposed for all to see

the warmth of your skin, the seep cent of your autumn hair
all used to belong to me
then the tornado came and tore up the earth
and I wish it was that summer again

artisto

I bought a statue from a fire sale the other day
from the house down the street that went up in flames
because my friends always scream about taking life by the reins
and nothing really happened on my birthday anyways

I’ve finally learned how to draw
with the statue posing in front of the window, greeting guests
who knock on my door and ask for portraits
or simply to purchase a memory from long ago

the cold marble provides a great companion
as those who linger pose in place
behind the easel, the pencil flies all on its own
such a beautiful passive income

the paper shakes my soul with sanity
but to others, I seem insane
how dare I call myself “artist” and live
without the empty stomach to qualify my name

la ĝardenisto, parto ses

I visited my friend today
he has nothing that he’d like to say
because there’s a spiderweb binding his lips shut
from disuse and decay

your breath is enough for me to paint
all the bruised colors of the morning sky
like I took my friend and mounted him
on the wall like a vintage painting

and when I slip through the back door of the house
and sneak my way to the river
the children living in freedom inquire what it’s like
to have wings clipped and essence harvested

one of these days, I fear
that the gardener will uptake his shears
and these innocent souls will upturn their eyes
and find shards of my corpse among the waters