charts.

sometimes, when it's late at night and I can't sleep, I make charts:





(I feel like these might come in handy later, maybe)

sometimes I take up origami.
and before I know it,
my room is carpeted in paper flowers.

I need to stop being a night owl.
I'm always the last one up.
I always lock the doors,
and blow out the candles.
I need ambien.

on coming out, despite not wanting to, and being human.

I wrote this last year.
I made a friend read it at the open podium because I was too scared.
In lieu of national coming out day, I think this is appropriate, and pertinent,
And definitely worth sharing:

……..


I am not an activist.
You won’t see me marching, or boldly and proudly bearing the beautiful colors of the rainbow.
I am not that brave.

The truth is, I’m scared.
I’m scared to death about how you will react when you find out.
I’m scared of the deafening silence that will surely follow. Your shock, your expression—frozen, like a living statue, cold as ice, the color draining from your face as your heart suddenly stops, breaks, and plummets to the pit of your stomach. I don’t want to hear the sound of your vomit splashing against the drain of the kitchen sink. I’m scared to watch as you age, instantly, right before my eyes: your hair graying, your skin wrinkling, your organs failing. I don’t want to be the source of your anger; strings snapping, glass breaking, the walls shaking as your blood boils. I’m scared of bursting capillaries, bulging veins, staccatoed breaths, bitter tears, your white knuckles, your rage, your disgust—your obvious pain.
I’m scared of your rejection; I’m scared of being abandoned.
I’m scared of disappointing you.
I’m scared of losing you.

Unfortunately, there’s no testing the waters in this situation. It’s black and white.
There are no shades of gray.
You’re either in, or you’re out.

So here I am: locked in the car, bound in the backseat, trying to sort out, digest and make sense of this impossible jig-saw puzzle, with only a handful of pieces—none of which fit together—and no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, bread crumb trails or wishing wells to guide me, to let me know if the coast is clear, to let me know if it’s okay to make my move. Here I am, feasting on the scraps of a limited supply of hope, running on empty and praying for the apocalypse.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tired of walking on eggshells, of constantly tiptoeing on pins and needles. I’m sick of keeping secrets, of self-medicating, of temporary mends. Of after hours meltdowns and sleepless nights, of slick blades and seeping wounds, of the masochism, the self-destruction, the self-deprecation. Of substitutions, of rerouting, burying and hiding pain.

I am sick of feeling invisible.

I know it’s no way to live, but I don’t know what else to do. We march. We carry on. We persist. We drive. We have to. Stopping isn’t an option. We do what we have to just to survive. And as much as I’d like to prick my finger on a spinning wheel and sleep through this lifetime, I can’t. It’s impossible.

It’s impossible because, for some fucked up reason, this universal notion exists reasoning that because I’m gay, I must be abnormal, an alien, a leper; somehow, because I’m gay, that makes me less of a person.
And you wonder why I refuse to come out?

What you fail to realize is this:
I have the same fears as you do,
I have as much pain as you do,
I’ve lived as much hell as you have,
I’m just as human as you are,
We all have the same parts,
We all have beating hearts,
We’re all wired the same way
We’re all on the same journey, swimming for dear life, trying not to drown in the same torrent, surging through the same vein.
We all want to accomplish all these seemingly impossible things:
We all want experience love, to fill our voids with something beautiful, something substantial and something permanent.
We all want to feel valued,
We all want to be accepted
We all want to be loved
And we all want to be respected.

This isn’t a phase. It’s not a disease or an infection.
I’m not contagious. You can’t catch it.
This wasn’t a choice. I wasn’t converted.
I was born this way.

All I am asking for is respect.

Until you can do that, I’ll be waiting, impatiently, from inside the closet.

........








I realize, by sharing this, I’m essentially outing myself.
And I’m motivated to share this, not so much by a sense of obligation via membership
Than I am by a personal sense of duty.
Because this is more important than just me.
Whether I like it or not, I’m a part of this movement.
And there aren’t many people out there singing for our side.
I’m usually never one to let others speak for me
And for a while, this was one instance where I kept my lips locked.
But I’m starting to realize
If I’m not going to stand up for myself, who will?


This is real ya’ll.
This is really happening.
So here it is—
Without the sequins
And the feathers and the glitter
And the rainbows.
And all that other stupid bullshit.
I’m gay as fuck.
But, I’m also more than that:
I’m human.
Just like you.

bathwater.

I think
Falling out of love
Is like getting out of the bath:
It’s difficult to bring yourself to do it.
And at first, it’s a process and motion
You don’t even want to go through with.
It doesn’t matter that your fingers and toes resemble prunes,
Or that the water isn’t nearly as warm as it was initially,
And it’s frighteningly murky; you can’t see the bottom,
And you think you might be fermenting—
Because when you’re in the bath, nothing else matters.
You have no obligations, no duties or commitments.
You don’t have to uncomfortably mingle and make trifling conversation,
Or be cordial and eloquent and dazzling and exude proper etiquette,
Or keep resolutions or promises,
Or actively participate, or consciously involve yourself in anything.
You don’t have to make nice, or kill em’ with kindness,
You don’t have to smile when you’re thinking of killing yourself.
You don’t have to get over it if you don’t want to.
And, for a brief moment, you can just float in the foam—
Detached—and let life pass you by.
For you know all too well
That once you breach the soapy surface
It’ll just be you against the universe.
Only you, standing there naked and shivering and dripping and alone,
And you’re scared, and you can’t remember
What life outside the porcine tub is like,
And you don’t know if you even want to remember.
You’d rather drown than deal.
Sulk in the suds than cope.
And yet, there you are—sitting in the very filth
You wanted to wash yourself clean of.
It seems kind of silly, soaking in dirt and oil
And the rotting roses and spoiled wine; the broken heart stew,
Expecting to be cleansed by the brew.
The same way it seems kind of silly
Caring about someone who doesn’t care about you.
So you surface, and emerge,
Because you have to,
Because life isn’t pausing for you,
Because the world isn’t stopping for your grief,
As much as you wish it would.
You can’t breathe.
You feel like you’re dying.
So you bundle, and hold yourself.
And then, slowly, by degrees, you start to dry.
Slowly, you start to live again.
You appreciate the northern hemisphere and the seasons,
And cleanse bad blood,
And mend burnt bridges,
And have heated grammar debates on Saturday nights,
And embrace the crazy in you, because
"Some people never go crazy,
What terrible lives they must lead".
And you make jokes in the hospital,
And plot, assigning roles for the post-apocalyptic world,
And huddle on the couch with friends and gossip and scheme,
And appreciate your wacky village in the post-modern age,
As motley and sorry as it may be, because at least you have a village.
And you sing, despite what you’re hacking up,
And burn your hopes and dreams and toenails in a cauldron
Letting the ashes sail to the heavens
And hope that the universe answers your prayers.
And even if it doesn’t, it’s okay.

“Life will break you.
Nobody can protect you from that,
And living alone won’t either,
For solitude will also break you
With its yearnings.
You have to love.
You have to feel.
It is the reason you are here on earth.
You are here to risk your heart.
You are here to be swallowed up.
And when it happens that you are broken,
Or betrayed, or left, or hurt,
Or death brushes near,
Let yourself sit by an apple tree
And listen to the apples falling
All around you in heaps,
Wasting their sweetness.
Tell yourself that you tasted
As many as you could.”

- Louise Erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247