A Season of Winter

I miss quiet moments with myself, when my wit creates prose, not solutions. In these minutes of solitude, I'd free-write something like "You put the art in artificial" while listening to music redolent of my tears, like  Stelle E Luna  or  Hanniou . My mind wouldn't fester at the thought of pending status or wage claims or mending some  half-assed entrepreneur's operational dysfunction at minimum wage. I'd exist in the context of my craft. I'd be an artist again.  I consider every person I've ever known, loved, and lost—all those chapters of my life that ended with me hanging from the cliff. I gaze at this broad selection of muses, all of whom I've revived with lyricism. That's when I realize that the boy I miss most is myself.  I used to be the artist, before I became the concept of some equation, a variable to be solved. I used to feel love; now I feel myself yearn for it. Part of me feels at home here. And part of me thinks home is something...

I think I confide in literature as one confides in a friend. My screams are inaudible on these pages. Here, pain can cinder without catching flame. I know the pressure of meeting absence where I once found closure as my words know the pressure of my pen. I have reached a point in my life where I am one with isolation.  My spirit feeds on betrayal, and it has for some time. When I breathe in, it isn't air. It's animosity. I envy people who say they hate no one. I envy children because they're innocent. I envy Christians, too, because they pretend to forgive. I can't even do that.  All this emotion, all this rage, and yet the only person I wish death upon is myself. If only because I don't want to be here when the idealism dies. I'm not suicidal, but sometimes I lie in bed with my eyes open and imagine myself passing from this life. I'd die alone, but I'd die quietly. Until then, I confide in my prose, for my prose is my expression. 

I used to believe in love that burns slowly. Kind, considerate, and respectful—the kind that thrives within healthy bounds. I always imagined that life with you would feel more like a voyage, one that was scenic, one that taught us how to behold. The truth is, I just wanted to be held, too.  What you did,  what you broke —it bleeds past the heart. You've shattered my idea of marriage. You've incinerated every innocent notion I ever had about exclusivity. Was I ever something you cherished? Or have I always been occupied like land? Did you think an apology would cauterize my trust? That time would heal something arterial? Can't you see? My wound is infected, my blood is septic, and I am dying. While you're on some existential journey with your therapist, asking yourself, "Why did I do it?" I'm passing from one world to another, trying to be okay with being disrespected.  In my heart, I know that it's over, and every time I let you into my home, it feels...

As I relentlessly pursue what most would call my delusion, I am far too yielding to you to let you go. This eclipse between dignity and infatuation cannot be explained, only justified to an unreasonable extent. Yes, I am running from something, but I'm still running to you. Yes, I am insecure, but only because I was taught to be. Where you see me clinging to fiction, I see my refusal to settle for what's in front of me.  Just to know you, to learn you slowly— that  is my desire. It's not about status, and it's not about appearance. It's about my enthrallment with your personhood. I'd never ask for more than one moment—one to listen, to be near, to be present—to show you more of myself in the hope that you'll see in me a glimpse of what I see in you.  Inadvertently, you've blurred the line between desperation and devotion. Whatever it is, I stand by it. Not because it's good for me. Not because I see a future. I'm still mulling over whether I even...

I reason at the brink of narcissism. This happened as a result of that , which only happened because they hated me, which goes back to the trauma from  this— Some might call it manifestation. If I think negative things, negative things will happen. Others call it karma—I deserve every inconvenient thing that comes my way. I suppose I believe that too; that's why I often ask myself, "What did I do to deserve this?"  Where is the logic in thinking that a Domino's delivery driver backed into my brand-new motorcycle because I did something that upset the universe? Or that the person I loved most only fucked other people because my anxiety dared him to? It's honestly pathetic to think myself relevant—that the stars could feel offended on an elitist's behalf. To worship my guilt and make my suffering proof that the universe has a conscience—is that not a mirage?  It's not spiritual to align yourself with the cosmos. It's selfish to think that your mindset—y...

Within a week, these Marigold petals withered and blight consumed each stem. I wish I'd thrown us out with them. I didn't because I'm not a victim, not this time. You did nothing wrong—I guess that's why I never fell in love with you. I'm masochistic that way. I only love when it nearly kills me. You didn't try, but we died anyway. One could say that we were incompatible, but we really did spend the best time together. I guess we were just incommunicative, despite the fact that we communicated every day. We never did in the ways that mattered.  You have this twisted idea of forever—that someone in this world owes you your satisfaction. You talk about commitment, but the only thing you're committed to is this notion that you're worth someone's life. You're not. The truth is, you'll never know the soul behind his lips. You don't even see him as an individual; you see him as a potential status. You're waiting for somebody willing to sett...

I like your name because it rhymes with the moon. Do you even know mine? Or am I just the barista who's too young to be writing you love letters? I like your name so much, I remind people how to say it just to say it more. Did you ever tell anybody mine? Or was it just a happening—an encounter in passing—that I admired you from afar before I admired you from across the table. I remember that your birthday is August 23rd, which makes you a Virgo, a virgin woman. Mine is March 9th and I'm a Pisces, two fish in one. Your favorite flower is baby's breath, which I find to be unique. Mine is a marigold, if you ever wondered.  I know that you're sensitive. You don't like reminiscing about good times because they're gone. You tear up when you miss your family, I saw it. And sometimes, you feel like you're behind—like you're not where you should be in life. I think you hide behind self-development because you're scared to be seen vulnerable. But that's wh...

To the boy—the occurrence—that hounds my dreams still. You had to have known the way my skin cindered beneath yours, and still, I held you. I chased you then and I chase you now, in the form of closure. Incongruous with all things tangible, it would seem that I chase nothing.  Unwillingly, you occupy my conscience. Against fate, I can still recall the delicacy of your touch. In vain, my heart beats, and however you materialize, my breath seeks you. I move on in strata, in seams. In a literary sense, in the seams to each anthology I penned. Allegorically speaking, my healing looks more like layers of the Earth; defined, veering, and known to erode over time—unlike you, forever existing in manuscript.  How does it feel knowing I made you immortal? That while you've become eternal, I've become a paradox? That is, I'm still alive, but it doesn't feel like it. I hold liberty to my name but remain bound to yours and in a multiverse of word and theme, my pen remains loyal to ...

I recall a time when we were happy, when love wasn't obligatory. It was a choice—it was my  choice—until you made me regret it. No, you made me resent it. Loving you became agony. I was impeded by the very "us" I once sought to save.  Circumstance, while a factor, could never rationalize your apathy. What do I have to do for you to see me? Not as a savior, but as a person?  Now I fear silence because memory resides in it. I fear commitment because I was committed to you. I thought I might find solace, knowing you're haunted by this, but I found only myself. I never wanted to haunt you—only to be loved.  Veritably  loved, at that. Not for my sacrifice, but for my pieces. Tell me, would you love me if I were a raging tempest? Because that's exactly what I am; you were just too busy having your life saved to know it.  I recall a time when I wrote "like the tide belongs to the moon, so do I belong to you." Back when I romanticized being your possession befo...

The Somewhere Between

I used to dream of the day he'd say he loved me. It'd be sincere, like rain plummeting onto dry soil. It'd be soft, like a hymn sung between chapel walls. Intentional, like poetry. Intricate, like the pulse that beats for him. But my fortitude crumbled beneath silence. There was never intention, only substance, but nothing substantial.  Two years and countless faces later, I can still recall the night I held him last. He was in my arms but absent all the same. His flight was at six-thirty that morning; there would be two thousand miles between us for three months. I resented the distance while he lay indifferent. It was as if my world was drifting away from me, into some faraway orbit. I'm sure there's a term for that—one he would know. He'd studied astronomy and was acquainted with space.  As I drove him to the airport, I felt on his behalf. When I parked, his hand twined with my own, I watched—no, I felt him withdraw from me. Maybe the moment was too real for ...

I am always the first to love. Maybe I'm trusting.  Maybe I'm optimistic.  Or maybe I've made synonyms of these words, synonyms for desperation. Oftentimes I wonder,  did I ever love him or did I love his potential? I am, after all, a writer. Plot-lines are my specialty and narratives might as well be my type. In some fucked-up, literary sense, the worst men always make the best stories.  I am never the first to leave. When I love, I love with everything. Everything I have and everything I don't . I condition myself to think him worth it because, as I previously mentioned, I love the potential. Only now I recognize that it was never his  potential, but the potential for me to feel something—to be known by somebody. To cry an array of tears in demonstration. To feel my heart splinter like a wishbone never wished upon. To think you the sky and me a beggar—to see you that way—with eyes like a typhoon, crying for you.  This  is what it means to  ...

There's this lingering sadness that I couldn't be the girl of his dreams. The complexity. The disclosure that he liked girls, but he loved me. Somewhere among the lost pages of my youth, I fell in love with a boy beyond my reach. Until he wasn't. I used to rehearse conversations, looking over at the passenger seat, envisioning him sitting there. That night, he was. My hand traced the lines on his palm, hoping my name was written on it. I breathed him like fresh air when I knew he was radioactive. I kept breathing it in, just until it killed me.   I've heard that straight crushes are canon for queer people. Maybe it's our quiet longing to be someone's turning point, their exception. If I love him in a way no woman can, in a way only a queer boy can—the way we wish to be loved—then maybe he'll choose me. It works in the world of BL stories and gay romance, so why not in real life?    The truth is, no offering of love—in amount or sincerity—will make someone lo...

As it is written, he's straight  and has a girlfriend . And still, I managed to convince both of us that he loved me. The casual holding of hands and friendly embraces in the back seat of his car—some might call it platonic, but I felt all the feelings friends shouldn't feel for each other. I'd tell him I loved him, and he'd hesitate. So I'd reassure him—it's not gay to love a friend. If only to hear him say it back, if only to hear it. The word "love" is spelled the same way no matter how you mean it.  While I had convinced him that he loved me, he never did confess. His expression, despite the many memories we shared, was cold. There was nothing in his eyes that said "I want to be with you." Contrary to my intention, he was steadfastly indifferent. He spent time with me because he had the time, not because he had the desire. And while I didn't have the time, I had my delusion to feed, lest it starve.    When it comes to first love, alig...

"Totum meum pro vobis" is Latin for "All of me for all of you." In more realistic words, it might mean "All I could be for all that you are." Individuality is among the many complexities of this life. The definition of a person differs. A biologist might say we are oxygen, carbon, and hydrogen, whereas a psychologist might say we are our environmentally induced behavior. An evangelical might say we are God's creation in perfect image. But an SBNR person might say true personhood is the friends you make along the way. I believe at the center of personhood is the potential to be more.  To light the altar of your every aspiration ablaze and call it "love" is vain. This is but the romanticized pain we inflict upon ourselves just to prove our feelings are  real.  But the truth is that an empire built on oblation, an offering to the gods of our sentimentalism, is an empire that burns all the same. Yes, love requires action, but action does not requ...

When I turned 18, the first thing I did was sign up for those apps everybody warns you about. Only in my case, nobody had warned me at all. I drove twenty-five minutes, met somebody for fifteen, and left feeling like I lost something. That is the closest I've come to culture shock—the norm within gay culture to meet up with a complete stranger, give him your body, and go home trying to remember if he was twenty-four or thirty-two. Forget trying to remember his name, it's not like you even asked for it. I couldn't fathom being so inconsiderate and cursory. So I, regrettably, remember it all: his name, his face, the slight crookedness of his front tooth, the Cancer sign tattooed on his forearm. I remember his political affiliation that contradicted his sexuality, just like his star sign contradicted my own. I remember the clasp of his hand that retaliated against my resistance, the breathing that drowned out my unwillingness. What is it that compels gay youth to give themselv...

I once said my loneliness was antecedent. Since I finished school when I was sixteen, just after being removed from my church, I felt so alone. I knew this season would last many moons. Part of me thought it would last forever. I resisted interaction as if it were a strong current, fighting against the very connection I craved. Maybe it was fear of loss that kept me hidden from joy. If I never established relationships, then what did I have to lose? Internally, I knew all I had left was myself. I was betrayed by my entire community, my friends, and the people I once called my family. There was no shoulder suitable for my tears, no hand fit to hold mine. And so I became my own comfort.  I was left, left to the mercy of myself. After I was outed, I tore apart all that was left of me and dissected my worth to identify what pestilence made me detestable. No one knew, or maybe they did and just didn't care. If I were seen, I was overlooked. If I was looked at, I was unseen.  Friend...

When I met him, he was anything but charming. From his obvious obsession with my ex-girlfriend to his unapologetic jokes, I couldn't help but give him the cold shoulder. I didn't know it then, but that was the same shoulder he'd rest his head on, limbs twined and everything. Upon meeting him, I saw a boy who lacked any sense of self. Upon knowing him, I recognized his loneliness. I felt it too. It went beyond proximity. This seclusion we felt, it was existential. And yet, the glow of a gibbous moon waned when we were together. Suddenly, it wasn't judgment I felt toward him. It was love. Of course, I called it friendly love for the sake of sound doctrine, but there was nothing sound about it. I kept my longing silent, afraid that if I openly loved a man, I'd lose the remnant of purity I still had. With each moonrise, he became my favorite memory, and "I love you" became my favorite contronym. He said he loved me, and I said I loved him. The same words with...

The consequences of being ousted by what used to be my home were brutal. "I set fire to my portrait just to see my face burn" became my focal point for much of my writing. I wanted to capture self-hatred through a contextual lens. They turned me into what they wanted to see: someone to rebuke so they could be ordained. I was handed a script in the form of a letter, then played the part. No miscounts, no missteps—just me and my infernal seclusion.  I felt conditioned to hate myself in full: from the silence I held wishing it were a man, to each spoken “I love you” I said to a friend. I looked down on myself with the same holier-than-thou eyes that they did, like some sort of abomination . So I put up my guard against the hollow masses surrounding me. There was, substantially , no heart beneath the armor.  In a literal sense, I went to drastic measures to become something original, drawn in any color but the ones they painted me with. I taught myself martial arts and adopted...

I have always tried to portray spiritual abuse in a profound manner, one that accurately contextualizes my experience. As I previously stated, I underwent ample spiritual coercion, most of it surrounding my identity. Upon the disclosure of my same-sex attractions, I was immediately abased. In an otherwise conservative community, I became the abnormality. Naturally, my attendance threatened their heteronormative ideals. My "struggle" did, in fact, contradict American-Christian values. I, a sixteen-year-old virgin, was called a "homosexual" by my pastor. Parents were encouraged to keep their children away from me. The Board of Elders sent out a statement defaming my character, including Scripture from Romans 16:17-18 which reads, "I appeal to you, brothers, to watch out for those who cause divisions and create obstacle contrary to the doctrine that you have been taught; avoid them. For such persons do not serve  our Lord Christ, but their own appetites, and by sm...