All I can do is write about boys.
I slide letters around,
carefully leaving an appropriate space
between you and me,
without seeming to try too hard
so that you can see these boys as I do.
Boys who are scared,
boys who are scary,
who’re loud, timid, cranky, and cheery.
But, really, that’s how I want you to see me.
not as a boy—
not entirely—
but as someone to whom feeling is not allowed,
as someone who always gets their way,
as someone who can’t find the words
or the courage
to say I love you,
so I ask you to let me look after you.
I write about them
because I don’t know any other way
to show you my inside parts
the parts that cry alone,
the parts that rage rage rage,
the parts that stop listening,
the parts that use violence as a substitute for tenderness.
I say boy because the feelings
I have are not those of a grown-up—
they haven’t learnt to be a suppressed yet.
I sulk when things do not go my way,
I pull at your hair just so that you look in my direction,
as if I don’t have a tongue that tells boastful stories.
All I do is write about boys
because I hope that one day
while I’m writing their redemption arcs,
I find something redeeming in myself,
something that brings me above regular masculinity.
All I do is write about boys
and feel guilty
for trying to find myself in their fictional lives.