Came out over a year ago now,
Parents told me get out the house,
Good luck out the closet. Mom blamed
It on the X, the generation or the drugs
I don’t know which. Moved in with
Some friends who didn’t care, started
Dressing in black, stopped
Washing my hair. Grew out my nails
And let the dirt linger there.
My room was night, thin papers
Echoed across the floor, tubes
And contraptions scattered
Along the floorboards. And again
I summoned the blue-orange flame.
I smelled a rotting corpse inside my head.
It was Kurt Cobain, but he told me
He wasn’t dead. His voice droned:
A mosquito, a mulatto, an albino, my libido.
Anarchy and apathy, twins birthed
From vanity, distortion of truth,
And punk rock on a full moon.
The reluctant King of the outcast teens
Said, “Why ask why?” Or was it,
“Why don’t you ask why?”
Never mind—he reeked of deodorant.
Euphoria clutched my abdomen,
But I could still hear him
As a whir, a vibration at my fingertips,
The sun is gone, but I have a light.