All is melded together in a tide of fluidity In the giving and receiving. Effortless is the trading off of places And ways of touch.
In my final days, I will soar into the sun And wait for you. Or should it be Find you there Waiting for me. Then
(paying for your butch ego) The fragility of the butch ego To which we are slave, Must be soothed by us, Whispered to and petted,
Searching for something In this void Of fatigue– A tender touch Or warm skin to lie against, A hope to grasp When against slick Stone.
I went to all my baskets of words To find them emptied out. In fact, it seems Anger and sadness Sandblasted holes Clean through the
Some character on a stage once said She’d cut her lover out into little stars To grace the face of heaven. But no, I’d not
Or so they say. Wish I may, Wish I might, Find one to curl up into tonight. But it’s too late. Far too late for
I snip the spent roses From the bushes And place the browned edged heads Into this bag. The bag is filled pink and yellow petals
Trigger Warning: This piece depicts intense and potentially triggering physical abuse and sexual assault. A song reminds you of all those years ago Upon the