• So, I wrote this a very long time ago, and it shows. I came out to my mother when I was thirteen. About two years fter that I was seeing a boy, younger than I was, and I just thought he was the sweetest thing ever. I had gone to see him. It was one of those Philadelphia blizzard winters. There was ice on the streets and it was too dangerous for an older friend of both of ours to drive me home from my boyfriends house. So they dropped me off at the train station. I stood on one side. My boyfriend was on the platform opposite (on his way home too). We smiled at each other. I motioned for him to go down the stairs and we met underneath the tressle, just as it started to snow. One of those types of snow where there's little ice crystals in it that make it look like glitter or something. Snow straight out of a fairytale. And it was under that tressle that he and I, after dating for about a month, had our first kiss. (I was young and he was young and we were both awkward and slow moving back then.) Just as we kissed, I heard the train whiz by above us. I ran back up to discover I'd been left by the train. I caught the next one about half and hour later and was stuck at the train station. I called my mother. She came to get me. The roads were awful. On her way she'd almost gotten into an accident. It was late, maybe one o'clock. She was FURIOUS with me. She accused me of being with one of my friends, who she thought that I was seeing, and being..."sinful" or some such bullshit. The ride home was awful. My mother doesn't yell. She expresses her "disappointment" through very tense consonants and short vowels and terse lips and quick breath...or just plain old scolding silence. In my opinion, that's MUCH worse than having her yell at me. When we got home, she slammed her bedroom door shot and started knocking abot her room. I went to my bedroom across the hall from hers, shot the door slowly, turned on one light and sat down and wrote...this:

I can't mend this broken home

& this broken home can't shed a tear.

& I cannot cry tears for your hatred

& I know you hate me

because you say that I will burn.






Though I have tried to be the good son

you slam your doors in my faces.

All because you say

that I will burn.






I hear the thunder rumble in your room

as you throw down yet another gauntlet.

I can only go catatonic & cold & quiet &

wonder . . .

why I ever told you the truth.






And I am truly madly deeply sorry that I don't live up to your 

expectations.

And I am truly madly deeply sorry that you never found love

w/ my father.






I miss you, mother

as you (s)care for me.

Promise, if you will

that the skyes will bury me.

Southend leaves me narrow on the road to tomorrow

Groupies offer fallow flesh upon his crucifix.






.  .  .





I won't be here when you wake.

Even though this eve is cold

. . . and your automobile has threatened

to stall.

The bleak black of my soul is spewing forth

my incantation:






"GREAT GODDESS, MOTHER & GIVER of LIFE I pray that  we make it home tonite!"






Turn a blind eye to just how similar we are

but, I'll forgive if you forget.

Then I'll trouble you no longer

when this frame of reference skips a cell . . . or two . . . or three . . .






I am sorry that I am listed "co-dependent" on your 1040.

I apologize

for the stretch marks, too.

I'll do all this wretching

on my knees . . . & beg

that you be placated

if only I thought that it would do a shard

of good.






My thumbs are swollen &

My feet are blocks of ice

as I flee from

your home/ my house (?) . . . if that,

in the snow.

I'll run to the lover that you have made for me

& then to the one that I have found for myself.






I won't say "bless you" when you sneeze because

your GOD has let me go.

I can't work the magik mojo mumbo jumbo you

use to disguise what my insides are.






So, I'll abandon your work ethic

& your family values

& your legacy of misery . . . 

at 5 after 1 a.m.

when I'll gather up the dust on the mantle of our heart(h)

& cast all ashes elsewhere.






Yes, my thumbs are swollen

& my feet feel like blocks of ice

& my mind only recalls that kiss you know

nothing of . . . that took me a month to arrive at

as I flee from

your home/ our town . . .

w/ a shiver.

I'll run to the lover that you have made for me

& then to the true one

that I love more than anything in this world . . .

including you.

no matter what you say.






. . .





You used to chant:

"You will miss me when I'm gone;

yes, you in your sad state of affairs."

& . . .  that is true.

But I can't help but think

your death also means my freedom.






I miss you, mother

as you (s)care for me.

Promise, if you will

that the skyes will bury me.

Southend leaves me narrow on the road to tomorrow

& Groupies offer up fallow flesh of which I love to taste.






I know I love

I feel for that one . . . of which you know nothing of;

& I could never share. (with you).

I am truly madly deeply sorry you disagree

w/ my idosyncrasies . . .

& the "accomplishments" you consider to be my flaws.






I send my own benedictions your way.

I forgive in my own time.

you'll lie naked under a robe of thin cotton

when the time comes,

& I'll whisper in your chapped ears . . .

"now,

die."

• Chy Ryan Spain

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