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[evolvingman-blog]

From Donte Collins’ book, AUTOPSY. 

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“Your body will assume it has survived for another day, until the next trigger.”

— Patrick Roche, “The Perfect Panic Attack”

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“Some things I have loved will never love me back.”

— Anis Mojgani - “Today’s Love”

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“They begged us to be careful. To be safe. Then told our brothers to go out and play.”

— Blythe Baird, “Pocket-Sized Feminism” 

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“I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike. Scared, but reckless. With no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.”

— Rudy Francisco, from Helium 

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From Dave Harris’ book, PATRICIDE.

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The Trap Aesthetic

In the solitude of your apartment,

the air is too familiar.

Inexpensive like the linoleum floor,

polluted with last night's unspeakable.

Sometimes it's too secondhand to inhale.

I know a broken home when I smell it.

I want to open the blinds,

maybe a window or two.

You know, expose

some of these walls to the sun.

Give us some breathing room.

I think you enjoy

sleeping in the shadows though.

It’s pretty pointless anyway.

The view outside is just as dark in here.

You can taste the poverty.

It stains the cabinetry,

after being deep fried.

Disappears on the first of the month

and returns on the second.

Loiters in the mail.

When the kids need new shoes.

Sleeps under viaducts and on sidewalks.

Destroys manicured lawns

and well-groomed homes.

I know it to divide and conquer families.

I want to plant flowers in the living room.

So I rip through the floorboards,

knowing this wasn't fertile ground.

You are my fig tree.

For years, I waited.

Standing still in my belief

we will grow together.

Have some roots,

build our church right here.

But you could never bear fruit for me.

How could life spring here

when we have always been destined to fall?

I could see from the beginning

you were calloused.

Made of amber, I should say.

A fossilized exterior, but porcelain innards.

I loved the facade.

The I-don't-give-a-fuck demeanor.

How you subtly licked your lips

as you carried a conversation.

The timber of your voice unsettling,

but nurturing simultaneously.

How rum and coke was your liquid courage.

How you spoke unapologetically,

especially when it was at my disposal.

My errors were treason and unforgivable.

You never liked being held accountable.

We broke the rules.

I learned boys shouldn't play

with each other's private parts.

Shouldn't touch what you can't fix.

That I have this dumb fixation

for bad boys.

That I see their potential

and ignore the obvious.

That erections have never been

excuses to fuck people over.

I believed I held

the king's heart in my hand.

But I soon discovered

he would wipe me out

just to cover up his demons.

I discovered that a greedy king

would never share his crown.

And I always, always,

better respect the throne.

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Nostalgic

Fatal is the attraction to boys

with the closets of men.

They are professionals

at clauses and confidentiality.

They wear their mistakes buttoned down.

Tailored to their broad shoulders

and the trauma ignored for years.

Egos are dry cleaned and starched.

It’s expensive to be an asshole –

a luxury not many are wiling to pay for.

Their tongues, European cut.

Erections are the perfect accessory.

And their bullshit is such a familiar fragrance.

Their résumés are quite the warning.

But they have so much experience

in being a distraction.

Empty is the attraction to boys

with the jawlines of men.

They have untaught hands

and limited empathy.

They tend to break

or prey on things that don’t come

with replacements or spares.

Like heirlooms and self-esteem.

Glass spirits and papier mâché hearts.

A mother’s negligence

or a father’s warning.

Sometimes there’s intent.

To disarm you before you can corner him.

I mean, before he has to commit.

Before he has to submit his pride.

Before he has to acknowledge

you are more than a moment.

That you are another’s man wife.

Before he has to be responsible

for another’s emotions.

Before he has to come back to himself

after he ejaculates.

I warn you

to not leave yourself defenseless.

Do not give him permission to betray you.

He will rape your innocence.

He will dismember your identity.

He cannot ruin you without your consent.

Most of the time, it’s mindless behavior.

They don’t understand loyalty or monogamy.

They only know rejection and Freon.

They only learn by chilling examples.

Either way, the grief doesn’t leave for years.

Damaging is the attraction to boys

with the mouths of beasts.

They have a broken vocabulary.

Not like a pidgin or Creole.

But jagged and piercing.

Your bones become his toothpicks

after he slaughters your spirit.

How he rips through your flesh

and you smell his frustration.

Remorse is foreign and unattainable.

You are just another snack.

You cannot be stored like leftovers

without your acknowledgment.

Your death must be a mutual agreement.

They soil things too.

Like legacies and surnames.

They leave their plights to their sons

to navigate through.

Sometimes to piss on in their honor.

They teach boys how to be bigger boys

and lack patience.

To be coddled and nursed into their forties.

To disregard criticism and waste advice.

To use sex as a coping mechanism.

However, there’s not enough pussy

to remove disappointment or shame.

I was once a hoarder of men

with breastmilk upon their lips.

Who were too young to believe anything.

Too premature to stomach anything solid.

Their minds too undeveloped to know home.

They were keepsakes locked inside a cardboard box.

As if their memories were scrap booked

or worth holding onto.

As if they were important documents

stored away in case of an emergency.

They were only painful reminders.

They were only evidence of discarded potential.

They were errors too brilliant to erase.

But too lethal to commit again.

I could no longer be their emotional trash can.

I refused to be another crumpled paper

or used condom.

I refused to be another adventure.

I realized I was more than

a weekend or a plane ticket.

I realized I was an eternity

and I deserved

a couple of forevers.