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Proof-Reading Love

By : January 23, 2021 No Comment
“Why are there always so many spelling mistakes in those long quotes about love?” she asks, her nose scrunching up. “I guess it’s hard to type when you’re in love,” I say, and look up from my book into her dark eyes. I want to add that it’s hard to breathe when you’re in love. And hard to walk in a straight line and hard to have just one drink when you’re alone and in love. Because every time I’ve been in love I’ve been alone. “But proof-reading is really important,” she says, squirming in the mint green armchair by the window. “Maybe it’s better not to proof-read love,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. “You poets always say stuff like that.”  She’s right. But what matters more is
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Airport Pick-Up

By : January 14, 2021 No Comment
I’m exhausted. Traveling for work can be fun, but really… it’s just long hours and shitty sleep. My return flight is landing and I can already smell my lady’s perfume. I miss her. My body misses her. The goal is to get off this plane and into her arms as quickly as possible. I keep this in mind when packing, so I always pack light, even for this two-week trip. I wrap up all the cords and miscellaneous stuff I tend to accumulate on trips. The seatbelt sign goes off and my ache for her grows just a bit. I stay seated and touch up my lipstick, and smooth my wild curls into some sort of shape while my fellow passengers jostle for position. They file past me, I collect
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Autumn

By : January 9, 2021 Comments Off
I met her when her hair was dyed red. She wore a long brown coat and a black scarf. She was autumn in a person, and yet I wondered why she chilled me to my bones. Her kiss was soft but burnt. She tasted like ashes and danced like a blooming phoenix. I still remember her firestorm on the dance floor, and yet I wondered why I still find sparks on the back of my tongue at night. She wouldn’t have known love even if it pleaded with her as much as I did. She told me she dreamed of escape. Escaping her mother. Escaping her boyfriend. Escaping the natural brown of her hair and escaping the way the season in her head wouldn’t change. And yet I wondered why
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Poems to Heal from Queer Trauma

By : January 8, 2021 Comments Off
After coming out and leaving behind a terrible past of five years in electroshock, ex-gay therapy, I found a cathartic release in writing. I wrote my way through any time I had flashbacks of my traumatic experiences with the homophobia we know comes with religion. A few years into my writing journey I had processed the deepest of my pain, from my rage at the bible college who tortured me and then kicked me out and abandoned me, to the sorrow and deep hatred I had for not being good enough. The writing that I poured out saved me.I compiled my writing into a collection of poetry, Dear God I’m a Faggot (2019), and for every copy sold, I have donated 1$ to The Trevor Project, the 24/7 suicide lifeline
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Liberated Love

By : January 7, 2021 Comments Off
I used to get sick to my stomach whenever I heard her name or saw the back of someone’s head with curly black hair that the sun made brown. When I was younger, I had longed for a relationship. Me and another person, totally immersed in one another. I never thought about the wheel of fortune and the downfall of love. The loss of the honeymoon phase is bitter and sudden like the winter air on my face after leaving my mom’s house.  I knew it was over before she said it. Before she was intimate with another girl on our bed. Before she had the cops send me to the psych ward, a $3,500 bill just for the ambulance ride. Before she drove away in her compact car barely
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Yellow

By : January 4, 2021 Comments Off
Mae’s wife loves yellow roses. In fact, she loves the color yellow in all forms. The sweet scent of honeysuckle blesses her with a yellow glow from strolling through the woods. Mae’s wife talks to herself in the woods. Soon, she’ll talk to herself in the house, too. Every morning she swallows a spoonful of honey. “It’s good for you,” she insists, then giggles like a little girl. Mae buys yellow roses for every vase in the house. Yellow petals fall on pill bottles lined up like a parade. “Flowers are a gift to the home,” Mae says, and paints over the spots in the walls, and puts down rugs to hide the knots in the wooden floors. The smell of roses hugs the home year-round and when yellow flames
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