Affirmations of a Gay Man

May I be content with myself and not compare my achievements to those of others. When one of my brothers gets a boyfriend, a very attractive boyfriend, may I congratulate him and not tweet passive aggressively.

May I find something new to love about my body each time I look in a mirror.

May I recognize the people and events that allow me to feel comfortable in my own skin today. People and events such as, but not limited to, the following: Bayard Rustin, Harvey Milk, Oscar Wilde, The Stonewall Riots, Audre Lorde, Wham!, ACT UP, Elton John, RENT, Alan Turing, concentration camps, The Daughters of Bilitis, every single drag queen that ever had the courage to put on her heels––and Lady Gaga (who is optional). May I feel the presence of these things always and may it humble me always.

May I never tell another gay man that he is too femme for me. May I never tell myself that I am too femme to be desirable.

May I go to the gym if and when I fucking feel like it––because it is not “gay church.” I am not negligent of my own identity if I choose not to go.

May I remember everything else about me that is essential to my identity. May I remember that gay men don’t exist in a vacuum.

May I be willing to take on the challenge of helping others overcome oppression, too. May I believe the words, “none of us are truly free until all of us are.”

May I never beat myself up for not having a boyfriend.

May I never beat myself up for not being as successful as others believe I ought to be.

May I be a beacon of body positivity to every gay man coming out of the closet now. May I treat my body like the miracle that it is.

May I love myself fully––not because nobody else will––but because I unapologetically deserve to love myself.

4/30: For Maria Teresa Francesca

My mom has done some amazing things in her life

like running away from home when she was 16,

dropping out of high school and leaving her friends,

family, and evil step mother

The same step mother who convinced my grandfather

to kick my aunt Andrea out of the house when

she was still in high school

.

This is the same woman who got her GED

then taught the GED course

then got her Associate’s, then her Bachelor’s,

then her Master’s, then another Master’s,

then got her Doctorate from the Harvard School of Education

.

This is the same woman that, when I look her in the

eye and ask her why she would ever marry someone

like my dad, tells me, “I didn’t think I could do any better”

.

She says I have her father’s hands

and I know it’s difficult for her to admit

because he watched and waited while my 

grandmother took a bottle of sleeping pills

She also named me after him, but never

addressed me as Charles––always Grady

probably just to fuck with him

.

It kills me when a boy doesn’t text me back

I am devastated when I go up

for a promotion and they pick someone else

Sometimes I wrap myself in my blanket on my sheetless bed

for days

Just fucking because

I didn’t have a job lined up after graduation

People told me to apply to grad school,

but I decided not to

Every day I fight and lose a battle to nourish my body

.

I want so badly to believe that I could pack up my things today

move to California

meet my father and tell him “no”

get my doctorate at Berkeley

and never look back

I want to treat my body like the temple that it is

to stop seeing ugly things when I look in the mirror

to not treat all food as suspect

.

One day, I will be Maria when she was 16

I will nod, appreciatively, to what she gave me

and frame it all––packing it into the trunk of my Alero

and drive the same route, until I’m in Ventura

.

Our paths won’t cross again, but she’ll be with me all the while

3/30: Katelin

Do you remember when they said we could be anything?

When the only caps and limits we could imagine were unfathomable––

we always said we’d worry about that later.

High school was going to be a breeze. Nobody cared that your 

mom couldn’t do your hair right because you brought butterfingers

from your house to share with the popular kids.

I remember tracing was still a thing. I remember Nickelodeon and

too many oreos in after school. That time we were both the last

to get picked up. 6:30 never seemed so far away.

Three years in a row it stormed on the last day of school. I spent 

my last hours before sleep with you,

watching horrible Mandy Moore movies

(they’re horrible because she’s in them) and pretending

we had magic powers.

Is the world we live in now really that different from fifth grade?

Can you give me one good reason why we can’t be anything?

When did we lose that sense of wonder, clip our own wings, settle down,

and decide to table our greatest expectations?

I want tree forts and school supplies back. I want to be ridiculous

and I want my parents to worry that I’ll never be satisfied.

It’s better than the way it is now. Our ten year-old selves, wherever

they are, throw a tantrum every time we try to act mature

We aren’t mature; we belong with the Wild Thornberrys––the A*teens––

that song my mom thought was about hitting women––

You and I––we’re so out of place in adulthood.

2/30: Regrets at 9:59

Shit. You’re still better than me.

I still feel inferior––even though you can’t compare us.

I’m the ‘97 Camry. You’re the new Maserati.

You are the mix tape made with only obscure songs.

I’m the overplayed Taylor Swift record.

I may be platinum, but I am common.

I may get a laugh, but you get an ovation.

I am Teen Choice. You are the Grammy winner.

I remember when you preferred my company,

and I’m sorry I thought I was too complicated for you.

You’ve inspired the most beautiful dysfunction in me

I’m always watching my back

I am a pattern

Without fail, time after time,

Like a swinging pendulum––gives

then receives––pronounced episodes

of dysmorphia and skepticism

Always weary, never once assured

Stop winding this clock

I want to break my own hands

Teach me about the exquisiteness of solitude

I may be broken, but I am beautiful in pieces

I decided that I’m not going to call you ever again.

I keep having moments––I think––of weakness

I want to reach out to you and hear your voice

to come over and have you undress me like before

Sometimes I even need to talk myself out of doing it

Because getting you on the phone will almost surely make me sparkle

And shine, and glow—and I don’t think I really want to do that for you anymore

It’s like even my needy mind can see the terrible outcome of its own bad decision

And there is only one

And it is terrible

When you allow yourself to sparkle for someone who won’t or can’t for you

you’re devoured by a looming sense of desperation and dessertion

It stays, like smog over Los Angeles, ‘till it’s burned off or blown away by something stronger

And these days, almost nothing feels strong enough to cast that feeling

One of the only things that helps these days is remembering this:

I am good.

Some days, I don’t feel pretty

or smart or wanted, but I know I am a good person

So when I’m alone and thinking of who you’re dating now

or wishing you’d ask me to come over,

I remember that I’ve always felt better about myself playing a board game with friends

than waiting for you to call me

Thoughts on alone, again

My track record with boys is less than spectacular

I’ve been on more dates than I can remember

I know every coffee shop, not by its menu, by the place I was sitting

when he told me about his honors project, his shitty roommate,

the looming sense of ennui when each of us realized

this isn’t going anywhere

I’ve also been to a lot of boys’ houses, in a lot of their beds,

often for just once before they fade into silent anonymity

“What was his name? …Tim? Ted? Troy?”

What does it even matter? I have all of the names in my phone still

complete with an abbreviated code which reminds me

where or how I met them (boys don’t do last names)

If I could count the number of boys who didn’t return my texts

or told me, “We’re just at different points in our lives”

I’m sure the number would fill up a dance floor

or a coffee shop, actually,

which brings me to my point:

You need to kiss a lot of frogs, and you might not even get your prince

He might be an endearing farmer-turned-tax-lawyer, an

ever-confident businessman, perhaps a knowledgeable library archivist

But until that boy comes along, get used to the idea

Lots of boys don’t have manners

Lots of boys won’t say it to your face

Lots of boys would rather make excuses

Lots of boys don’t do last names

Become used to this idea that we are all playing a game

of hit or miss—when you miss—you move on

And try not to dwell, but

Trust that this boy could be your prince or your farmer or your tax-lawyer

This boy might text you back

This boy might make you fall in love with him

This boy might not come from the same world as boys at all

Maybe he is even standing in the same shoes,

hoping you might be the english-major-turned-wayward-cashier

that will text him back and like the things he likes

Let me tell you now, entertaining the maybes in life

is so much more worth-while than the clammy, hard reality of distrust

A poem for an almost lover

They say the hurricane just made landfall in New Jersey

We’re far away, but the waters will still rise

The park where you took me for our first date will be flooded

The street lamp that we sat under will go out

I hope you will be safe and warm in your apartment

Surrounded by your aspirations, red wine, and the bag I left by accident

That first time at your place

I hope, in spite of the fact that I sometimes wish we’d never met,

You’ve got a new heart to handle—

And that you’ll do so delicately

Maybe one day, you’ll put your things in my old bag

And take him to your favorite places,

Carrying a part of me all the while—that’s how it will be

Autumnal

I saw a turning tree on the side of the road today

and almost stopped to ask, “are you sure?”

But I know she would have told me, “yes”

so I kept driving—and I drove out the summer

until she turned all pink and orange, red, purple—

a dynasty of hues—

until even I couldn’t help but stop to ask the obvious,

“When will I change, too?”

Losing you

It’s not secret that I struggle to stay organized

No, really, ask anybody who knows me well

They will tell you that I’m great, that I listen

That I am, at times, the most thoughtful person they know

Still, it remains no secret that I can’t keep my shit together

Which is why I’ve compiled a list, called:

My most egregious offenses to basic housekeeping:

Item one, DVDs never make it back into their cases

Shit gets scratched

Item two, the thick layer of dust on everything in my room

Item three, I never separate the unwashables

You know what I’m talking about

Things like pens, important pieces of paper,

worst of all, fucking burt’s bees chapstick

You would have thought I’d have learned my lesson

especially after I destroyed Pokémon Yellow when I was eight

But no, every time I open the dryer, some sad treasure awaits

A check that can never be deposited

Quarters that used be in a roll

The house key none of us could find

And, of course, burt’s bees

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say I wish I could wash men out of my life

Intentionally, though,

unlike and the same way the pens and papers go

I would fold your picture eight times and forget you were in my pocket

Which is fine because, by the time everything is clean,

you are no longer.

Surely messy people aren’t the only ones capable of negligence

so monumental we lose our grudges, our sorrows, and disappointments—

and it all comes out in the wash?

10/30 (or 64/365): We are

we aren’t some people

we defy classification and immobility

nobody has a box that can contain us

.

we are as slippery as leaves, damp and stale

after the snow leaves

we left our shoes at the door a long time ago

back when our feet were still soft

and our toenails were trim

.

we aren’t generalizable

nobody even tries to make an example of us anymore

we could be something just as easily as we could be nothing at all