I have a fucking fever.
I have a fire in my belly.
I have a fucking flame in the back of my eyes
and I taste blood
and I spit blood
and I gasp
and a bloodbubble pops from my lips
and I run my tongue
across my teeth,
my canines,
and I imagine them
on your neck
on your wrist
on your collarbone
and I imagine your tongue
in my mouth
in my ass
on my chest
wrapped around my cock
and I think of all the words
that would spill from our mouths
and mix
like spit
and lube
and sweat.
II.
I didn't ask to be born into this war. I didn't ask anyone to birth me, drop me into a fucking warzone, and then scold me for firing at the enemy.
Mom, Dad: how fucking complicit you have been in my murder! How complicit you have been in the assassinations and attempted assassinations of my friends, my lovers, my heroes. The two of you fucked, you wanted a child to have, you had your selfish reasons, and you mixed your genes and created this fucking monster. Your genes made this thing that you revile. You put this sorrow into me with your sex, and then told me:
"You have a mental illness."and on and on and on.
"You'll go to hell."
"You're only looking for someone to affirm your sickness."
"You suffer from a mental defect."
"Who knows what deviancy you get into."
"You're sick."
I have this hunger, and I looked. I looked to get the same fucking thing that surrounded me: on television, on magazine and book covers, in newspapers, in tabloids, in movies and on movie posters, in cartoons, on the street corner, in the classroom, in stores, in restaurants, in cafes, on college campuses, in museums, at concerts, in bars. Look at all these people: holding hands, laughing, kissing, building lives, shoving their affection in my face, and that day we saw two young gay guys at Ingles, just this year, and they were holding hands, and goddammit, Dad, you were so offended that they had to "shove their disease in everyone's face like that," like you fucking know what it's like to be hated for loving (thanks, Moz), like you have any idea, you who tells me to "be on the lookout for loose women to take advantage of what they're offering." You act like their desire to just be together is some attack on you.
...and the first person who showed me that, who caressed my 15-year-old cheek, and kissed me on a stone bridge under a full moon in December, was separated from me by force; you sent me to the doctor and said "fix him;" fix me because I want affection (née love), fix me because I want my share of what's going around, fix me because my desires are not your desires and are therefore wrong.
Your private investigators and fabricated online accounts and keyloggers and hacked email accounts and tapped phonecalls and scrutinized phone bills and physical threats and material trappings, and I'm still in love, I still have someone in my life who loves me. Somehow, even after all your verbal stoning, after the years of your mental torture, somehow I'm still not so broken as to be unattractive. If you knew, what lengths you would go to, to keep me in this cage, to keep me in this materialist prison, to keep me afraid, to keep your image clean, your reputation safe, your Norman Fucking Rockwell hologram in place?
I've thought about how easy it would be to kill you, both of you. I could take my .22 and do you both in. I could do it, so easily, and you're either so naïve or stupid or arrogant to have given me a gun, because I know you don't know me that well; you don't know my ethics or my beliefs. You don't know my heart, though you claim so loudly to my sickness.
What saves you, and you'll never thank me, is that I can't give you my life. I can't give up anymore of my happiness to you. I can't remain silent anymore, for you.
