Introduction

11/26/22

Do you want to see me naked?

Do you want to see my ghosts?

Do you want to know what haunts me?

Do you already know?

I don’t share for self-pity.
I share it for us.
I don’t expect many
(but) I do want much.

This is me- transparent,
in watercolor glass
shake the globe- apparent,
watch me form a cast.

It started when I was nine
That was the age
I learnt the die
And from that year
I’ve wanted time.

When I was four, only four,
My brother taught me
My first slur.
I never stopped saying
“It’s only words.”

Yet here I am
relying on such
to share my world.

I say
I dedicate
My life
To the written

But our mouths
declare
something else
to pit us.

They say
it’s change
but no —
it’s pain.

Passed down
From one
another
in vain.

I was the biggest hypocrite of 2015,
I was the biggest hypocrite of 2015.

Cause I said the words every single day.
No matter how much I’ve said I’ve changed
I know not- but the feeling, re-arranged
To fit a cast to hide my pain
I point at others to wish away.

Any that might
bring down
my age.

God, tell me please,
Or else,
I remain.



I stopped eating
when I was 15:
“I only see
how little humans
mean to me.”

I’d vomit in pain
from binging
at the age, of 12;
twelve: tripled amount
of guilt
I shared around.

I have not been a good friend.
I do not care to make amends-.
I used maturity as an excuse.
I do not want to be the news.

I do not want to feel a noose
but it seemed required
if I wish to inspire
the feeling — the ceiling —
a chair, below.

“Finally, rest,” I’d say,
tuning out my hurt.
Dimming down the day.

But through the pencil-skirt
lies desire and death —
little, little genocide,
I multiply, I crest.
Learned at 16:
I never took it back,
but when I opened love
it’s warm, a fire
attacked.

I laid in blame,
wide away at 17
curling my fingers
so far back, my
legs quivered
with every crack.

A living corpse. A repeated breath.
A tour-de-force. A broken neck:
each gathers
from labors, addressed
to pain I’ve suffered,
let win, at best.

But now, I tell you, that is the end.

By the age of 20
I’ve expected many,
only to know, by 21,
it won’t be much,
which comforts my heart,
soul, and brain enough.

Yes, by 22 I’ll
love and hate
and everything
in-between.

And 32, I’ll find you.
42, I’ll lose you.
52, I’ll learn from you.

Like when I was only 2,
I said my very first words:
“mama,” I echoed
not knowing
the weight
it would hold.

I’ve learned
to love
to hate
to die —
measure time
through a glass
to be broken by chance.
Yes. To starve
to sleep
and everything
in-between.

I’ve learnt
the weight
the scale
the fear
it’ll bring
to kill my
old-me,

but if I’ve learnt anything, it’s to know
the ghosts
that haunt me
are gifts
given from



myself.

(I love you, Max)