“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt.”

What a load of shit this is.

Clearly, the people who spew this phrase have never faced daggers of words, have they?

 

What do you expect from clones?

I’ve had my share of dirt,

And plenty of near misses,

And tears, because of you,

And razors, against my skin, placed.

Such a long time: your prey.

 

They tell me I’m unnatural for something I can’t control.

Or I’m not at all beautiful.

Just throw me into this hole.

 

Keep piling on your words,

Don’t worry, they don’t hurt.

It’s not like you have to feel them too, now do you?

 

I’m suffocating under this heavy weight I bear.

So I’m a disappointment?

And who says so, just you?

You had me convinced so long that I couldn’t shake it.

 

I tore myself asunder and I just didn’t care.

Every night, an appointment,

My blade and nails cut through.

People told me to be strong.

A false smile, a fake it.

 

After months of fighting myself,

Of trying to push you out,

I tossed your words and cleared the shelf.

I threw away my doubt.

 

Now I am me again,

But wait,

No,

A better me.

Amen.

You can get out and go.

 

She told me “we’ll see if it sticks”.

I guarantee you that it will.

Finally me, finally free,

I’ve broken out of this horrid state.

 

So guess what?

I don’t like these dicks,

And I do not want to see your “skill”.

I can say loudly and proudly that it’s the girl I want to date.

 

She inspires me. They inspire me.

 

Her silkiness leaves me begging.

It’s not just a matter of touch.

She invades my ears with a voice so tender,

And that smile.

I’m sure the heat is really what caused global warming.

Her footsteps go unnoticed and her attempts to dance are purely cute,

But who am I to say,

I can’t dance,

And even her movements that spark laughter in others seem graceful to me.

She’s not a supermodel: she doesn’t have to be.

I don’t want Miss America wrapped around my waist.

Which reminds me – the taste – how I long for her to be around my waist, but not her colorful arms.

Rather,

Those hidden legs of hers and all that she is and all that I am entwined in something so private yet personable and so pleasuring yet painfully vulnerable, perpetuating perfection with panting and playing and palming powerfully the curves and crevices creaking closely, the bed frame, frantically fighting friction while the friction faced and flourished faintly and frisking feverishly with flowing feelings and fervent roars recalling relaxation and resting rightfully upon reading relentlessly, not books, but bodies, basking beautifully at each other, each lover, reach, hover, speech covered by moans muttered under breaths beneath breasts between lips meant to kiss, hips bent to bliss, scripts spent to miss, tips wet to this… and we connect.

 

The simplest of touch.

It sends shivers down my spine.

I’ve never felt chills so welcoming.

So right.

So tell me.

Am I as wrong as you say,

Just because I am gay?

Am I not happy this way?

Because I'm me, all day.

Have you anything to say?

 

 

I didn’t think so.