On Coming Out

So that I may start another year as myself

Swimming

Three years and I've pried probably
nine out of ten of your fingers
from their vice-like grip around my soul.
You used to choke me, physically and spiritually,
but I held my breath.  And now at twenty five,
my breath only ever catches
when I stumble on your memory.

Note to Self (Make Room)

The world has a lot of love to give you.
Keep your heart open and let love flow out.
That will make space for their love to flow in.

Bound

Two creatures tied together by their misery,
Too afraid to let go of what they know,
Too familiar with the other's moods;
     There's only a few.
One home made of anguish and torment,
One arbiter between the world and soul,
Won over only by the prospect of discomfort;
     There's only so many paths.

9/3/2015

Witch

I can feel my powers reawakening.

Autobiography

Perhaps the only place a soul's life history
     could be told would be in poetry.
To be explicit, to be literal about me
     is to be truthful superficially,
But too much abstraction, telling it metaphorically
     is a story told artificially.

My whole life I've been a writer,
     and as you can see here, also a rhymer.
Poetry and writing allow me to life decipher,
     acting as designer and healing as survivor.
Creating forces me to ascend above transcriber.
     I enlighten, I live, I am wiser.

Mazes

(11/18/2015)
Why is coming out such a process?
An unending, continuous process?
One that never seems to get easier no matter how much practice you've had or how many times you've done it?

I'm sorta in the closet.  Sorta not in the closet.  To some people I'm out.  To others I'm closeted.  Feels like lying by omission.  Feels shitty…
But there's so many barriers (not even including fear) to knock down to get out of the closet.  Saying "in the closet" implies there is only one door, without a lock, to be opened.  Then you step out and it's just that simple.  But it's so not like that at all.   It's many doors that are often locked.  You find yourself crawling out windows you stumbled across in the maze.  You learn to be an expert lock pick.  You draw maps in your mind with explicit protocols on how to escape.
It's uncomfortable.  It's like being stuck in chrysalis.  You know you've transformed into something better, but how do you get out?  Where is the seam?  Where is the weak point through which you'll force yourself?  Force… That's exactly what it is.  You push and prod but rarely do you cajole.  I can't seem to be that tender or nurturing with myself.  I am too preoccupied with remembering my map and how to pick locks…

Chapters

For my third instar,
Back in a cramped chrysalis again,
Feeling like life is a silo
And I am just one single wheat grain.

Molasses

Life is so fleeting,

Yet everything seems to weigh

Very heavily.