Quinton

Gray Area


Breathless 

And cold,


The skin around


His eyes

Sunken and

Dark,

Almost empty.

My baby lays

Gone. 

Sweet baby

Boy,

Hair matted,

Sweatily,

To his soft

Scalp. 

Images rush 

Into my scattered

mind. 

Christmas toys

Barely out of

Their clinging paper,

Strewn around the 

Living room.

A coffin,

Too small 

For any human

To fathom.

A grave plot,

Bought and used

Before the thought 

Of death has

Processed.

Goodbyes 

Lingering on 

Dry,

Cracked,

Lips.

A gentle kiss

Placed on 

Grey skin.

Goodnight 

Sweet baby

boy.

Poems

Essays

Sonnet of the Broken-Hearted

The day you left, my heart did stop;

The sunflowers in the front yard wilted.

Freezing bitter rain did drop.

You said you didn’t love me, but you I did.



The day you left me, the sun did not shine.;

The blue birds in the heavens did not tweet.

This day I could no longer call you mine.

The truly was our loves cruel defeat.



A wise, educated man would once say,

“Love is the voice under all silences”,

But I could not hear your voice on this day.

And sullen tears broke through my defenses.



So here I stand, back where I started;

Reciting the “Sonnet of the Broken Hearted”.

Heat

Fire:


A noun;


combustion or burning,


in which substances combine chemically with


oxygen from the air and typically give out bright light, 


Heat


Heat


An igniting source


Burning red hot 


The curtains drenched


In orange and


Yellows and


Red.


A flash in my 


Mind.


An image.


The color of your face 


On the night 


I first kissed you

The dry wood


Crackling under heavy 


Footsteps and brazen 


Combustion


The sound, 


A memory pulled 


From the recesses of my 


Mind.


Your voice, 


A song


A poem 


A fire.


Igniting my insides


Burning the house I 


Have built inside of myself


In order to start


Anew. 


Self-Homophobia

The boy I love

Calls me a faggot.

His words an acidic

Burn as his anger-induced

Spit hits my face.

And I ponder,

Is this why

There are holes

In his bathroom

Mirror?

Spark

Your fingers brushed

Gently

Against my skin.

Tracing my figure,

Writing your name in goose

Prickled flesh.

Your breath whispered

In my ear,

Eliciting moans and groan

Of euphoric pleasure.

Electrifying.

My teeth graze upon your glistening flesh,

Biting my love into

Your skin,

Letting the universe

Know that,

In this intimacy,

We are one and

It cannot hurt

Us.

​​​

East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​


Locker Room Jesus

I don’t want to be

Who I am,

Standing silently

In a crowded middle school

Locker room.

Waiting,

Patiently,

For the other boys

To leave.

Each coughing out

A mumbled

Faggot

With their cologne covered

Pre-pubescent B.O.

                Tears stream

                From reddened eyes

                And shallow sockets

                As I sit.

                Repeating

                And repenting

                Hoping to change who

                I don’t want to be.

                A suffocatingly dense

               Halo of Axe body spray

               Surrounding my

               Head.

              Holy am I.