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I love you
You can never see me as an adult, independent
I’m still your little boy
Why won’t you let me grow up?
I’m 29, but stuck at 6 in your eyes
You want me to be out on my own,
But you keep reeling me back
I can’t escape the gravity of your love
I can’t be my own person without your approval
I tell myself that you care too much
But do you care enough?
Your daughter is afraid to be you
Your son is afraid to upset you
“Maybe now you can get a job and I don’t have to support you anymore!”
But I never asked you to do that.
I haven’t asked for your help in so long,
Yet you guilt me into doing what you want
I can’t escape the heaviness of your help
I love you dearly, but I need to escape
I need to be free
I need to be on my own.
You’re sick, and old.
I know you won’t be around for much longer
Part of me feels guilty that I find this a comfort
I admonish myself for feeling good about that
I won’t have
The Age Of DiscoveryTwelve years old. Watching the news.
Gay kids being bullied.
Broomsticks and punched fists.
What does "Gay" mean anyway? Why is it wrong?
"YOU BETTER NOT BE GAY!" my dad screams.
I am too terrified to talk, and I don't know why.
Fifteen years old. Summer. San Francisco. Visiting my sister.
Walking through town, on our way to a museum.
"What's with the parade?"
Why are there so many colorful floats around?
She answers my questions, tells me about these Gay people.
They're the first positive things I've heard.
I know I can't stop staring at Sam in class...
What does that make me?
Sixteen years old. Gym class.
I can't stop staring at Sam. Or Jay. Or Tyler...
I throw myself into my religion.
Reading The Bible daily.
I can't talk to anyone about what I'm feeling.
The more I read, the more depressed I become.
I can't focus, can't move forward.
I take a knife to my wrist.
Hold it there.
Press it to my flesh.
A few minutes feels more like an eternity.
Tires on gravel. Dad's
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More