Posies posing perfectly, performing poems

Miles | 22 | IL, USA lover of linked letters lying in lost lands

[mileswrites]

silver/white/blue

Sometimes life is silver.

It’s silver like Mom’s freshly polished silverware, silver like the tacky chrome on the neighbor’s tricked-out truck, silver like the shiny old coin your grandfather gave you as a child.

Silver is good.

Silver means laughing and creativity and a general overload of energy.

Silver means missing classes because you’re too busy and not showering because you have other things to do and skipping meals because you just don’t have time.

Silver means being on top of the world, flying higher than mankind has ever dared, and being next to godliness.

Silver means too much emotion.

Silver means irrational thoughts.

Silver means credit cards and pills and sex.

A silver too silver means that you’re in an ambulance, sirens wailing, the miles between you and the mental hospital rapidly disappearing.

 ~

Sometimes life is white.

It’s white like the linens your aunt uses at Easter, white like the freshly fallen snow in the winter, white like the swirling patterns of spilt milk.

White is safe.

White means crying when it’s appropriate and regulating behavior like an adult and a general balance of emotions.

White means going to classes because you understand how important education is and showering because taking care of yourself physically is the first step to taking care of yourself mentally and eating every meal because you’re a growing boy.

White means relaxed conversations with family, not being an outcast at school, and philosophical musings with friends about God.

White means stability.

White means reframing negative thoughts.

White means running and pills and coping.

There isn’t a white too white, but you’ve long since learned that there is a white too long, the minutes between you and silver or blue rapidly disappearing.

~

Sometimes life is blue.

It’s blue like the blue bonnets passing by the window on the highway, blue like the endless expanse of sky above you, blue like the icy depths of his eyes.

Blue is bad.

Blue means crying and apathy and a general lack of creativity.

Blue means missing classes because you’re tired and not showering because what’s even the point and skipping meals because you just aren’t hungry anymore.

Blue means worried looks from Mom, useless encouragement from Dad, and hopeless pleas to a non-existent god.

Blue means too much emotion.

Blue means suicidal thoughts.

Blue means razor blades and pills and ropes.

A blue too blue means that you’re in the passenger seat of the family’s sedan, wheels spinning, the miles between you and the mental hospital rapidly disappearing.

- “i’m not crazy, just colorful” 20/2/17 mek

[mileswrites]

for my little sister

Shoulders shake silently behind them is buried either brown hair bobbing with bouts of bubbling brightness – a lazy laugh of love and light or a shivering sob of sinister self-sacrificing sorrow She is not aware of the predestined power that prowls, perhaps patiently planning the poised portrayal of premeditated perfection But her motions are equal parts meticulous mourning and mighty magic that maneuver like masterfully measured molten metals through a menagerie of meticulous mazes And she cannot see the grateful glances from glorious gods and goddesses guiding her gently through growing, green grass and glowing globes of glass She remains resolute in her righteous rebuke of the ruinous rally she leads against her own rebellious rise and rather rotten reasoning Because at the heart of it all the bleeding the screaming the anguishing heart of it all she forgets that she has been always is will forever be a part of it all of a brotherhood of a sisterhood of a neighborhood of rambunctious retorts of supportive smiles of tremendous teaching of unrivaled unwavering of vim and vigor The well-loved woman willingly wishes for ways to wander away from the war that is her wondering But she is strong and she can fight Because above all else She is brilliant while bringing boisterous bumbling to carefully combat the dawning darkness that dares to drown out even the most delightful and daring ideas She is blinded by self-depreciation she is baned by self-deceit she is bloodied by self-doubt And yet she is surrounded by the surging protectiveness that can only be borne from the most devout piety and the kinship that can only by brought forth from the most dedicated personalities Because not only will she be able to find the sweet, surging strength from centuries of sisters in circles before us, but she has reached resounding reception by the religion she so resolutely researches and the vagrant vagabonds who vocally value and verbalize her very venerable vehement valiance She is loved. She is loved. She will always be loved. -- "the goddesses have blessed this one" 1/20/17 mek

[mileswrites]

slam poetry performance 11/17

It is June 16, 2015. I am at home with my family at the dinner table. “Can you believe this man?” my mother asks, idly rubbing butter on her all-American corn cob. “I think a Cruz presidency would be scarier,” my father replies, the practiced pull of his knife further separating his finely-grilled steak. “Mmm,” my mother assents, carefully shaking salt onto the buttery creation in her hands. “But it’s not like any of them could ever beat Hillary.” At the end of the table, I remain silent.

It is May 26, 2016. I am at home with my family at the dinner table. “Can you believe this man?” my mother asks, precisely stabbing at the leafy greens spread across her plate. “I think that the GOP will never unify behind him,” my father replies, spoon swirling around roasted corn and chicken in the chowder near his plate. “Mmm,” my mother assents, scooping up a crouton and balancing it perfectly on her collection of lettuce. “But it’s not like he could ever beat Hillary.” At the end of the table, I remain silent.

It is July 15, 2016. I am at home with my family at the dinner table. “Can you believe these men?” my mother asks, tenderly scooping filling into the middle of her tortilla. “I think that a man like Pence will only be a detriment to Trump’s campaign,” my father replies, dumping far more salsa than is strictly necessary onto his dinner. “Mmm,” my mother assents, cautiously sprinkling on the perfect amount of cheese. “But it’s not like they could ever beat Hillary.” At the end of the table I remain silent.

It is November 9, 2016. I am on the phone with my family. “Can you believe these people?” my mother asks, scrolling through news reports of riots and racism. “I think the backlash would’ve been worse if Hillary had won,” my father replies, turning off the constant stream of the publicized outrage coming from the television. “Mmm,” my mother assents, switching from the online stories to some blog with ideas for Thanksgiving. “But in four years, there’s no way he could ever beat Hillary.” On the floor beside my bed, I remain silent.

It is November 17, 2016. I’m standing in front of people I do not know. My mother says nothing because she has not truly spoken to me since I told her that I am her son. My father does not reply because he already has one son and does not need another. My mother assents nothing because she lives in a safe place surrounded by safe people. On the stage I can no longer remain silent.

We live in a nation where police provide persecution through poorly portrayed protection and folks clutch religiously righteous rifles to rain down retribution on the remaining rebels of the Republican Reich. And I cannot go a week without witnessing the abhorrent annihilation of another brother or sister in the name of another faceless -ism or -phobia.

“It’s not about social policies,” they assure me. “It’s about economics.” Well, I hope that the bloodmoney you blatantly amassed will bring back the many mountains of bruised and broken morals that your blithe movement botched.

“We’ve survived worse,” they assert. Well, say that to the entire generation lost to an invisible, elusive enemy, one that Reagan allowed to effectively eradicate anyone against the American homogeny.

“We’re all adults!” they cry. “Why can’t we just respect each other’s differences?” Well, I will respect our differences when the difference between us is no longer that you do not respect me.

You showed up to that booth and in one fell swoop placed a plethora of people in preposterous proportions of peril. My friends and neighbors face numerous ne'erdowells who negotiate in negative nouns and damning details.

I can no longer remain silent because in doing so I have signed my own death certificate, and I will have let them win.

I will not let the maniacal machinations of a megalomanic man mark me for murder.

I will not wait for my own wake.

- “silence slips secretly into slaughter” mek 2016

[ittybittycowboy]

Coming Out

Imagine, for a moment, a t-shirt. It’s a nice t-shirt, one your parents bought for you for one of your birthdays, but you can’t quite remember which one. You just know that it’s always been there. It used to fit you perfectly, it used to be your favorite shirt in the entire world. But now that you’re older, you’ve grown in more ways than you can really describe. The shirt is still well-loved, a symbol of your parents’ generosity and compassion, but more and more you’re finding that it’s too tight in the arms and that the stretch of fabric across your chest binds your breaths like lead in your lungs.

Over the years, you tried to tailor the shirt they gave you in order to feel more comfortable. You cut off strip after strip of cloth, hoping that one less thread will lift enough pressure to stop the drowning sensation. It’s not enough, though. It’s never enough.

So you bought yourself a brand-new shirt. It’s one of those soft cotton jersey shirts that feels like heaven to snuggle with. Sure, it’s strange, new; people often ask you what happened to your old shirt, and you have to wash it a couple times to get the excess dye out and cultivate the perfect texture, but eventually it fits you better than any shirt you’ve ever had in your entire life. It hurts sometimes, because you wanted the shirt your parents gave you to always fit, you wanted to grow old while proudly bearing the gift you’d received all those years ago. But when you look in the mirror, you feel so much more confident. When you hear the brand name tumble off of your peers’ lips, you’ve never been more in love with fashion.

—

I came out as trans to my parents this morning. This is an excerpt from my email. I am sharing this in hopes that it may help others who are struggling to come out as well. If you would like to read my entire email, shoot me a message and I can send you my nearly 3k words, complete with Bible passages (my parents are Catholic) and trans friendly articles regarding advice on raising a gender nonconforming child.

wishing you all the best, mek

[mileswrites]

like little kids we pick apart   peel apart      pry apart         the bark

and each tear   like a scab being torn      like a scar being worn         like a star being born brings the twig to bareness

it removes the shell that protects it from hell and renders it   useless from the elements   from the animals      from mankind

but in that uselessness lies beauty in a rare, unnatural form and in our futility lies beauty like we’ve never seen before

because to lie open   bared and broken,      bringing the banter          and bustle of life             to a breaking halt lies beauty

and to lie bare   organically opens      partially pointed parts         only observed by            privately privy parties and in that lies beauty

because those twigs those sticks are a part of something greater and maybe so are we 

mek, 2016, “bared bark brings beauty” 

[mileswrites]

you got me addicted to things like nicotine and caffeine and being me but it turns out that you didn’t want smoke-covered kisses a latte-soaked missus nor me being me just wishes of elsewhere perhaps permanent places packed with a plethora of people primed to please you or others overflowing with open-hearted, one-sided obligations because that’s all you ever gave you’re a child naïve instead I’m an urchin, a waif roaming the streets for something sturdy of sustenance, surely the ruined roads of romance could remove the remnants of ruinous reminders from the breaking aching shaking brambles of my heart.

mek, “nicotine stings when it meets skin”

[mileswrites]

even at birth I was an afterthought. almost on the side of the road little time to get to know the child brought to life, to strife, eventually to write... but I've coped it's what I've known to be second, at the end, the smallest to begin. my parents forget my name one they gave me, holy to save me, and they forget. they forgot. it happens a lot when you're an afterthought.

mek, "second place will never be first place"

[mileswrites]

A sunlit, homey room my heart, filled with gloom until that ping, that blip, and suddenly you’re just a click away and I remember that word: away away away and the room begins to sway because I only asked you to stay (you went away) and I thought a clean break would clean the slate but you compromised and stayed (away)

mek, “stay (away)”