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I felt sick. I felt like I was getting over something. A cold. A bug. The flu. Heartbreak. A boy. Slide. Slut. Soothe. I woke up in a panic, and my morning was a pacing haze. It reminded me of my first year of sobriety in which everything felt so fragile and I felt so tender and the world was one big barbed wire. Today, the world is a barbed wire and I don’t know why. I leave my house. I go to work. I go get coffee. I go get a juice. I walk the boulevard. I text. I write. I piddle about. Anything to get me to stop thinking about the ways in which I accidentally flung the doors of my heart open, let it all in, and slammed it shut. The bats of hell are screeching, whipping, lashing in my chest. My heart burns asking me to just let it break; to put it out of its misery. “Hold on,” I say, “let me open up. I know I can.” I can open up and let the pain pass through and heal my heart. And I breathe. And I think of all the boys. Rip. Ruin. Ride. The rugged ones. The trim and prim and proper ones. The muscle boys and the twinks. The good guys and fashionistas. The tops and bottoms and everything in between. The ones I wanted to have sex with and the ones I felt obligated to. I think of my sexual rumspringa, where anything and everything goes, and the air is stolen from my lungs. Thoughts of the men that passed by and through me. The parts that were left over. The pieces that stayed with me. Their stories, their anonymity. The dishonest ones—the kind ones. Discreet. LTRs. Insincere. Frightened. Lonely ones. It’s all left over. I hold them. They walk with me into every conversation. They lay with me at night, and the experiences that pushed me outside of my comfort zone push me around in the night. So I look at them. All of them. I release them. I open the windows of my chest and I let the grit seep out. I stop holding my breath. The electrons that whirled around me that had collided with these men now must re-orient. I let them. I am changed because I am pieced by these men and experiences. I took the good and left the rest. I think of them, too, and I wonder what they held onto and what I simply left behind. . . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #sex https://www.instagram.com/p/BuZM8VDjZv3/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=14acbs2stjlxc

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #sex

Rise, weary ones. Ascend, dear broken ones. Claim your throne. You are power. You are presence. You are breath and life. You are past, present and future. You are infinity. . . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/BtjV_9VgIgC/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=12kizkyg4z27v

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet

Preface: 2018 led me down some dark roads. It was the hardest time I’ve had in my years of sobriety. Sobriety felt like the only thing good that I held onto in 2018, and here is where it begins. . . 2018, astrologically, was a year that the most benefit planet, Jupiter (the largest in our solar system), was in the sign of Scorpio. Jupiter expands whatever it touches (it also brings good fortune). Every year or so Jupiter moves into a different sign. When it was in Scorpio (sign that rules the deepest and darkest regions of our soul), it expanded our attention to the shadow areas of our lives. The following things may have happened to you: your fears expanded, your unrest expanded, relationships issues came to light, and unresolved corners of your spirit were being asked to be reviewed and, hopefully, purged. For many, it was a year of hardship, however, as they say “conflict breeds intimacy” and Scorpio rules intimate, primal connection. . . As we step into February, I am reminded of love in all its forms. Late last year Jupiter moved into its home sign-Sagittarius-and it loves being there. This means, also, that each sign now finds itself in its ruling house. In terms of Jupiter’s effects, this year will allow you to step into a space that your sun sign loves being in. Find out which house that is (or ask me) and run toward that direction. . . As a licensed and certified spiritual practitioner with @inspirespiritualcommunity, it is my aim to not speak from a pedastal or walk ahead of anyone, but to fall with you, and remind myself and anyone else the truth of who we are. Be bold this year, the universe has your back. ——. . . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet #astrology https://www.instagram.com/p/BtWRz75gc6s/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1m2ycx99ijc4d

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet #astrology

Part 1 of 2 — It’s dawn and I left your place without crying. As I turn the curve on the overpass and the sun rises, my tears hit the steering wheel. I don’t know how I am going to make it home, because I. Am. Crumbling. You saw me out with my friends. It was one of those electric moments that even my friends could see. You gave me your number. A day didn’t pass by the time I was in your Detroit loft watching you study. I sat with you for hours. You’d look up every now and then and chat. I watched lectures with you. Not at all interested in them, only interested in you exploring your passion. I make it down the overpass. 20 mins until I am home. It hits me again. I’m too young to need this thing that you and I had. But I do. I want you to want to be with me. You invite me over. I’m ready for a date. You tell me I can hang, but you have work to do. You stop every now and then to kiss me. I’m important to him, I think. I take my exit and you’re still flooding my mind. I’m overwhelmed, that after only five or six times of hanging out, that I imagine us together. I’m afraid that it’s not about you. That it’s me. That I will want this scenario over and over. That I’ll crave the heartbreak because I don’t know how to do it differently. I am back at your place and you made a meal. As I move closer to you, your distance is apparent. Unable to see me. You ask me to come to bed. We mess around and I stop. What is this, I ask. Fun, you reply. I am so young. I make it to my street. I pull my car into the driveway and I realize that I was too young for you to believe that I was more. It hits me and my gut sinks. I blast the music louder... . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/BtHJy6JgCTi/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1s7dnfh3kwgif

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet

Pt 1: I decided to go to the pool party. Life had become stagnant and I needed something to lift me off of my trajectory. None of my friends could go, “fuck” I thought. I was already decided on going and I’m stubborn like that. But going alone didn’t feel like an option, because I only knew the hosts. I would be alone at this party full of hot LA guys unless I found someone new to talk to, which is basically a death sentence for an introvert. Wasn’t it inevitable that to have a new experience, I’d have to have a new experience. I was intimidated as I pulled up to the house. I thought about turning around and driving to Will Roger’s beach instead; a place where my anonymity was assured and flying solo was common. But I didn’t. I walked into the party. There were probably 50 guys mingling about, splashing in the pool, making drinks at the makeshift bar. Did I know any of them? Of course I did…from Instagram. Wasn’t it inevitable. I felt like I was watching a cliche scene from a gay movie full of bodies with just the right amount of chest hair, vascularity and covered with $200 swimsuits. I was watching a gay movie, except I was also in this movie. I was there and part-taking in the cliche, that was not lost on me. Whether I’d be the coward or hero, a minor or starring role was all up to me. I chugged a Red Bull. I found a corner to put my bag, and I took off my shorts and shirt, revealing to the party my brand new swimsuit. I flexed my stomach for dear life and noticed something immediately—no one was paying attention to me. Thank God. Wasn’t it inevitable that my self-consciousness was self-obsession in disguise. I made my way to the back sliding door because I overheard someone say there was food—hot dogs and chips. Well, call me surprised! I am notorious for always standing within arms-length distance from food. I watch the snack table like a mother watches her child on a playground: “Kelly, don’t put that in your mouth!” “Share, Tommy. There’s enough to go around.” “Get off of that, you whore!” ... . . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/BsoKfmLgxe0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=s6968epmyvnu

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet

Pt 3: ...For the first time in my adult life, I was scared that I’d lose someone. Wasn’t it inevitable that you’d be uncompromising: “I am a 32-year-old man who is basically set in his ways.” So I bent. You were planted in one place, standing on the platform, and the rest of the world found its way to spin around you, and I was moving on an escalator—not knowing if I was going up or down, but moving nonetheless. I couldn’t stop for you if I wanted to. And I did want to. And I tried. Wasn’t it inevitable that I’d move so far from you that our earliest memories were filled in by the newer scenes of our lives. Scenes of us hanging out with our own groups of friends—boom, another person steps in front of me on the escalator. No “good morning” text—in comes a passerby filling in the space where I could still see your eyes. A full day without hearing from you—I’ve moved so far on this moving staircase and there are too many people between you and I that you are a blur in between the silhouettes of strangers. You go on a trip with your friends and I only find out when I text you, and you tell me you don’t have service to call—the escalator ends, I stumble as I get off. I frantically search to find you. The crowd pushes me forward and I can’t see you; I don’t even know where I left you. I don’t know where I left you. Wasn’t it inevitable that we’d no longer miss each other, because we can no longer remember who we were together. Wasn’t it inevitable that I’d forget. I’d believe you left me. But, you were you, unchanging. I accidentally stepped off the platform and drifted away from us. I fell, this time, away from you. . . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/BsoKiKPAmLY/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=x1z27anv1vs0

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet

Pt 2: ...as I walked up the steps, I tripped and stuttered stepped into the kitchen. I looked back to make sure it wasn’t my clumsiness, but surely a booby trap that befell me—there was just that last step, no excuse for my sloppiness other than nerves. As if I was channeling Bridget Jones, I turned around and There. He. Was, staring at me. I was embarrassed. You see, the embarrassment wasn’t as much about me falling, but that I had done it alone. There was no one to giggle about it with. There was no one to play off of—just me. Before I could make a joke, he said “hi.” I knew who he was. In my mind, he was one of those guys that everyone in our massive and eerily small LA gay community wanted. I said “hi.” Honestly, I was so taken aback that I was surprised I knew how to pronounce any words. For the next few moments, I was barely fluent in English. It felt like I had just serendipitously fallen off the momentum of my life at just the right time, onto your platform, his platform, into a new direction. Wasn’t it inevitable, that going to this party, all by my lonesome, awkwardly waddling into the kitchen for food would lead me to him. All we said was our names as we squeezed passed each other in the narrow kitchen with smiles on our face. I wouldn’t get your number, you wouldn’t ask for mine. It was just nice to have a flirtatious moment after I fell toward a handsome stranger. Wasn’t it inevitable that you’d find me on Facebook and that our first date would be sushi and that we’d talk about all the things that mattered, right then and there. We’d talk about our rough childhoods, past heartbreaks, our thoughts on God, allowing ourselves to be exactly who we were. We rocketed toward meant-to-be-together. I found out who you wanted me to be very quickly, and I became that. I put away the expansion of my life so that I could fit into yours, and in doing so, I gave you permission for us to be all you. I fought, at times, I threw fits and then asked for forgiveness... . . . #writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/BsoKg99A9Pt/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=z73c8mrduzf9

#writersofinsta #poetry #prose #gaylove #dating #heartbreak #gayguys #instapoetry #instapoet

Do it your way, dear one. Break hearts open, baffle minds, chase the belly laughs, melt into the air-stealing weeps. And choose, choose the closest seat to your soul, which is finding the feelings, interactions, people and places that erase from you the fallacy of mortality. Live on. . . . #poetsofinstagram #thepoetspost #writersofinstagram #instagood #instapoetry #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/Brs5u4sgiOR/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=5p4167yy6hg8

#poetsofinstagram #thepoetspost #writersofinstagram #instagood #instapoetry #instapoet

I felt sick. I felt like I was getting over something. A cold. A bug. The flu. Heartbreak. A boy. Slide. Slut. Soothe. I woke up in a panic, and my morning was a pacing haze. It reminded me of my first year of sobriety in which everything felt so fragile and I felt so tender and the world was one big barbed wire. Today, the world is a barbed wire and I don’t know why. I leave my house. I go to work. I go get coffee. I go get a juice. I walk the boulevard. I text. I write. I piddle about. Anything to get me to stop thinking about the ways in which I accidentally flung the doors of my heart open, let it all in, and slammed it shut. The bats of hell are screeching, whipping, lashing in my chest. My heart burns asking me to just let it break; to put it out of its misery. “Hold on,” I say, “let me open up. I know I can.” I can open up and let the pain pass through and heal my heart. And I breathe. And I think of all the boys. Rip. Ruin. Ride. The rugged ones. The trim and prim and proper ones. The muscle boys and the twinks. The good guys and fashionistas. The tops and bottoms and everything in between. The ones I wanted to have sex with and the ones I felt obligated to. I think of my sexual rumspringa, where anything and everything goes, and the air is stolen from my lungs. Thoughts of the men that passed by and through me. The parts that were left over. The pieces that stayed with me. Their stories, their anonymity. The dishonest ones—the kind ones. Discreet. LTRs. Insincere. Frightened. Lonely ones. It’s all left over. I hold them. They walk with me into every conversation. They lay with me at night, and the experiences that pushed me outside of my comfort zone push me around in the night. So I look at them. All of them. I release them. I open the windows of my chest and I let the grit seep out. I stop holding my breath. The electrons that whirled around me that had collided with these men now must re-orient. I let them. I am changed because I am pieced by these men and experiences. I took the good and left the rest. I think of them, too, and I wonder what they held onto and what I simply left behind. . . . #instawritings #writing #gaylove #dating #sex https://www.instagram.com/p/BrT1Zm6A7IL/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=15zv8m5r68rd0

#instawritings #writing #gaylove #dating #sex

I could be discussing gun control, I could also be discussing “who wore it best.” We cannot trust the earnestness on my face for clues.

Harriet Tubman to me is one of the most inwardly centered and mindful activists in history. She was an illiterate triple minority slave and someone who managed to free more slaves than any single person in the history of the US and never lost one. She was guided by her faith and intuition. How can we embody her spirit? As we look to continue to do this work, whether it looks like #resist or #persist or #timesup let’s take lessons on effectiveness and also on self-preservation. Cuz at the end of the day some stuff just doesn’t work and only brings us more emotional and spiritual violence. Join me as I share from my activism, spiritual, and technological toolkit. Link in bio. . . . Photo taken in 1848 by Horatio Squyer

#resist #persist #timesup

#2018

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To actually decide requires you to “kill off” the other options.

If 2017 kicked your butt and resolutions seem insufferable to you and people keep telling you ton”let go” of this and that, same.

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If 2017 kicked your butt and resolutions feel insufferable and you’re tired of people just telling you to “let go” ...same.

If 2017 kicked your butt and resolutions seem insufferable and you just want to let go, same.

Merry Christmas. Life is about expanding our capacity for compassion and understanding. ❤️

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