An unfolding, not unlike the budding tendril of
a power,
a fluoresence,
a flavour so strong
only love can stand its way.
The spice of life?
The sweet vigour of youth?
Or maybe, the barest of hint
of strife,
of dreaming design?
I hear that speculative fiction
is rife
especially about how easy it is
for homosexual boys to wilt and die.
But I know, too, that speculative history
is alive.
I know you think you made some huge, important sacrifice.
Did you, now?
Did you really?
If you had to ask me, and ask about all I have dearly
let go of, even though it was mine
if you had to ask me about all the times I nearly
no,
let's just say
I nearly lost
what was mine,
and yours.
Space and time.
Vulgar and so refined;
the scent of two thousand hundred million pentillion lifetimes.
I sacrificed them all.
Body, mind, heart and soul.
Silence.
Time.
Space.
And everything divine.
If gay boys are really so weak
then why am I still alive?
If gay boys are really so small
then why do both heads still turn when I arrive?
You know how
everything gets bigger on the inside.
Maybe what made me more vulnerable
than any other human being on the planet
is also what led me to die.
But if that's true
then this, too, must be verified:
Maybe what makes me stronger than any other human being on the planet
is every last fucking thing that I have survived.
Your lines, not mine.
Your interest in rhymes.
Your interest in my past and behind.
My story
of finishing
every
single
last
fucking
fight.
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