Why You Must Let Boys Make their Histories.

Dear Whoever,

I wonder what will remain from me when I keep emptying myself to gather salvation for myself.

Today was not a good day. The memories come back without permission. They are not good memories, just so you know, but they come with a numbing force.

I don’t suppose you care about this, you shouldn’t if things were different, if the law of the land wasn’t your foothold for cruelty. Cruelty? Yes cruelty! Mind eroding treachery steeped in something vile and queer inside of you. It is not in how much you make me hide, nor what you do when I try to step out and show you that I am able to walk like you do, talk like you do, see as you do. That I am as human as you ( a notion you aggressively cloak yourself in).

It is in the things that you say. How bashful, dismissive and unaccommodating you steadily grow around me. It is in the things that you do, how you have fashioned, defined, and conceptualized life on your heteronomative terms. Any ruffle is to be palmed down. Any crease singed straight. I am up listening and waiting for when you might leave the crease in acceptance of inevitable imperfections. Where you might put on the ruffle with understanding.

I am waiting for when you will stop defining other boy’s boyhood.

A boy feels a thing. I felt things. There comes a confliction. I was eternally spiteful of a body that wasn’t working as it should. The boy has demons to do secluded things with. I have their footsteps, claws, horn prints, and scars emblazoned about me. It became what and all I could see. The boy is a dim kind of shapelessness. There is nobody to tell it to, so the demons never have a third party snooping into their feasts. Into their manipulation. Into their misinformation.

The night was bright with stars. I know. I swear I know because I was staring up at it as the belt hit me wherever. Head. Chest. Eyes. Arms. Feet. Libido. Thigh. Knee. Feet. Stomach. Lips. Soul.


Maybe you cannot explain some things to him, just don’t shut him out. This is not an imploration. It is only an advice, because he will shut you out after playing out your orchestrated plans to sick perfection.


He tells her. The next day he leans close to tell her what I have done. What I am. What is inhabiting my body. She looks at me. I am sure she did, because I kept moving my sore body away and at her without calculation. I just needed a place to have it. She’d wonder aloud at the feasibility of two men fucking. It would run through her mind for a while before deciding to shoot me those passionate eyes. There seemed everything wrong in what her mind had concluded on her speculation. Concern. Care. Hate. Love. Anger. Mercy. Opposites. He tells her, the one person who could have made her know me as something strange but similar. That is if he himself saw me as that.


For every day that these memories come back to spoil my day, I thank you. For the unkind words I thank you. For your blatant neglect I thank. For that boy of yours, I am sad for him and piteous of you.

Happy (mis)parenting.



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