Themes: Love // Silence // Queerness // Queer Body // Desire // Bilingual

Senseless

Most people would’ve ghosted
But me?
I call it love—

I just wanted to worship the ignition,
the firestarter who kissed like a loaded gun
and left a trail across my skin
like something meant to burn.

But here we are—
tracing the heat your body left behind;
you, reciting a version
where your mouth was mercy.

I stayed.
Of course, I stayed.
Because stupid fits better
at 2 AM,
and I promised
myself daylight.

When we collided,
we fucked like saints
exiled from heaven.
You kissed me,
pulled the trigger
every time
I whispered
this is the last time.

But God,
I wanted you—
to fuck me until memory split open,
tattooing bruises into my marrow,
rewriting desire
with the same hands
that once held me
like a name you never spoke
but still mouthed
in the sweat-slick dark.

I should’ve walked away,
a few let’s talk later texts ago,
a few nights curled
against your gym-worn body,
muscle firm with memory,
quiet with denial.

Fucking like survival.
Like if we knotted
ourselves tight enough
silence would split first.

Loving you was like a fractured mirror—
I knew it would bleed me dry,
cut me the same way every time
and sing in every shard—
but still, I needed to see.

I wanted you
to fuck me
until forgetting
moved like fever through my bones—

how hollow it felt
beside your breathing absence,
how easy it was
to erase yesterday,
how tomorrow
was never mine to hold.

I stayed because
your lips rehearsed apologies
better than your tongue.

How many times
did I swear I’m done
only to fold beneath you,
only to hit repeat
hoping you’d touch
the last part of me
that still remembered
how to ache.

So if you find yourself
in these lines—
and it burns—
good. You finally
left me speechless.

I carved it
into the only language
that would house me.
I carry
what’s left—
still burning,

We deserve a love
that doesn’t hollow us,
then vanish
before dawn.

Litany for the Broken Body

A body			was never meant to feel this way.  
Not this tongue	of fire,
this throat		in cinders  
and still,		I’m made to speak.  

He said walk straight.  
                		lower your voice.  
no boy			calls the squirrel from Madagascar cute;  
no boy			etches sea beasts in violet,  
no boy			sways, not that way.

But I wore softness like a second skin.

Maricón.		        Vago.  
Faggot.			Bastard.  

i learned		vowels in corners,
i tasted			them in slammed doors,
the flick		of a father’s eye.  

love is			a performance I fail to master.  
no matter		how tightly I wore it like a straitjacket.

the way i walked was wrong. i am the boy 

one shoulder		lit by window-sun,  
the other		swallowed by dusk  
half shadow		half boy.  

love	is a performance.

when someone else is watching you watch:

a boy			of contradiction.  
half light.		half leaving.  
a shadow		forgetting the sun.  

what			do you	do  
when 			forgetting  
is all       		you’ve ever learned.

i dream of the boy i once held.
he said he loved me.
said he’d marry me.

now he leaves the restaurant quiet,
eyes already somewhere else,
his shadow slipping into
someone else’s hands.

i remember the weight of him—
gym-shouldered, mouth like a bruise i asked for.

we never said goodbye.
i forget them all.
i say nothing that might’ve saved us
because shame sounds like silence.
forgetting begins where the body breaks
into its own silence

i wanted to be touched
hunger in the mouth,

thirst in the body,
until the body learned fire.

a body betrays another body

still i dream of hands reaching
for hands, a name whispered down my spine.

i do not forget so easily now 
how survival was always my mother tongue.

it rises from the wound,
scorching my throat,
a psalm i was never meant to sing, 
but still do.