For years, I’ve been wondering where this road leads a boy or where this boy leads a road. How this skin is clueless about where its race began or where the finishing line crosses. Like time. I’m an oscillation of actions hoping to find a home to fit a weariness in this city of ashes. They say fall in love and I fall out of myself. I don’t know how to hold a prayer in my mouth so I cage love below my diaphragm because to love is to pray that fire continues to find something to burn. See, my marrows are mazes of gasoline and match, formaldehyde and illusions, so if I’ll burn, let me be a metaphor for lost boys searching for a home. They say to wear your body into waters and watch your ennui swim out of your body. You, a baptizand. Maybe these waters aren’t holy enough. I’m still a boy cradling at the wingspan of hurt. Do you think I’m exaggerating this anxious story? See, I only want to chisel my story into a portrait of beautiful and soft things, and if this road would be my end, martyr me and let my dreams be the sunsets in nirvana.










Photo by Dan Asaki on Unsplash