Sleep is one of the constants. Sleep is always there. Welcoming, unavoidable. Threatening. Always the same yet so different. No nightmare is ever really any more frightening than the one before. Dreams can produce something so real that we are desperate to have them again. Even changing our lives to reflect them. A night can be a bare canvas. And it is troubling when you can find nothing to paint. Is it as simple as forgetting dreams? Or were they not meant for us in the first place? Like a road sign facing the wrong way on the highway. I think I missed my exit. I am utterly dependent on sleep. It is my greatest vice. But dreams elude me. When I am so tired of them hiding, fiction is the fix for my withdrawals. Sleeping is too easy. What a cop out. But so unbelievably difficult. Melatonin is labeled sleep support, but operates more like a sleep hammer. Very persuasive. Diphenhydramine foregoes all formalities, makes quick entry into the skull with the grace of an impact driver. You can't help but sense it's presence the day after. It can't help but overstay its welcome. I spend a lot of time on the edge of sleep. Like a laugh or a yawn within the sinuses that lingers. A pleasant, dull, not ache, not tingle. When you finally succumb, you must relinquish total control. It is in the contract. Non-negotiable. I don't think I have enough time to read the fine print.
It is part of my biology to rid this world of me. I shall defy my programming.
I rest on a crooked spine You are the tired muscle That keeps the nerve from pinching More core is weak I make up for it in Strained actions Centering my weight on things That are not meant to handle the strain A tightness in my chest A breath I can't let out For I do not know a source From which to breathe in again
A sense of doubt No sense of urgency Uptight but not alert A total breakdown A failure to assemble from the first stage A forward motion with no hope of reaching anywhere A magnitude with no direction Self hate Acknowledgement of self hate Pride in self hate Comfortable self hate A reflex A noise that only gets louder A numbing cold A sniffle A joy tempered by inevitable sorrow An understanding that others feel the same A mania that hurts more than the depression An inability to cope with the inability to cope A passion for passions A jangling collar A latch A light An energized exhaustion A forfeit An end A flammable propellant A beginning
Dear Father, I'm gay If this was a letter those are the only words I'd say But these thoughts will put a hole in my head So I figured I should write this song instead It's not only that I'm gay I don't want to be cliche And even that is overplayed I don't know what else to say I never thought I'd see this day Because I could just wait until the day you die You would never have to know your son's in love with a guy Little did you know it was part of a plan So you would never find out I was in love with a man But I fear that on the day of your death If I had held this in until your final breath You'd blame one of us on my lack of love And you would never truly see what I am capable of You may never know your own son It's not fun to come out wrong In more ways than one Is it better not to know? For you or me? I guess I'll just have to wait and see I didn't want to do it like this But it's the only way These words could escape my lips Did you suspect a thing? A missing ring? Or is it only in the lyrics I sing? Because I could just wait until the day you die You would never have to know your son's in love with a guy Little did you know it was part of a plan So you would never find out I was in love with a man But I fear that on the day of your death If I had held this in until your final breath You'd blame one of us on my lack of love And you would never truly see what I am capable of
I is a personal friend of mine. I has recently taken up reading. Fiction is where I spends most of his time. And I is not a big fan of rhyming. The books on I's shelf would not be considered strange. But among a tome of classics and contemporaries, a pinpoint eye might just needle a thread between some of those books, and find out what truly interests him. And I thinks he doesn't want that. Unless primed on Baldwin's works, the average man would not be drawn to Giovanni's room. And if he decided to read, he wouldn't stay long. But I already has. That man may find some interest in A Room with a View. But in the third story of that collection he would find no companion in Maurice. But I might admit that he did. A normal man would call Vuong's debut descriptions of mishaps of boyish love repulsive. But I would say he was enraptured by those passages. I loves these books. My good friend I. I knows they are beautiful. I wishes to share these books. But where he finds beauty others find sin. For a time, I thinks this makes them special. Believes that these stories are better for most people not having read them. But when asked about fiction, having to lie about his favorite books, That crushes him. Trust me that I is a real person. And I does not only read, he lives. And between those books, he lives again and again. And I begins to have some questions. A regular man would find it playful when friends say they will help him find a girlfriend. Not I. A typical man would know what to say when discussing exes and dates with friends. Not I. A normal man would not struggle to find a romance story he can see himself in. Not I. A straight man would have no problem calling himself a straight man. Not I. I wants to say everything clearly. But I... I desperately wants to understand himself. But I... I drags the closet with him daily. I wishes he would never have to come out. But I am.
