These are my words and my words alone, no AI was used in the making of these writings.

And although Chernobyl was no accident, he said with a confident grin and no patience or way to explain, and all he went on about was a bad heart and the CIA.
Still what stuck with me the most was the words from the bookworm, the words from the ghost it was when he said, "I wish you had the eyes to see the truth, because you have the blood".
You are all cowards and I've never been more ashamed.

Let your darkest fears, flood my ears.
I will never, never let you fall.
I'm not feeling that, intelligent. But I will spread my wings for you.
Every burn I have, was caused by chemicals.
And I'm not feeling that intelligent. And I'm afraid to be alone.
Don't speak, just hide, just lie, don't lock eyes with her.
Together, we are still alive. Together.
Together, we don't have to hide. Together.
I've had a knife in my back before.
And I can swear that it fills my lungs.
Crushed, force fed - the lies, as you tried to take me down.
(Together, we are still alive) Because I know there's no taking back, the touch you forced, the trust you lost.
The unsaid promise you broke.
(Together, we are still alive) Because I know there's no taking back, the touch you forced, the trust you lost.
Destroy, my, world.
Let your darkest fears, flood my ears and I will never let you fall.
I don't think you meant well, when you reached across the couch. And I will never feel the same.
I will haunt your brain like drowning under water.
I'm not feeling that intelligent, but I am still alive.
I am still alive.
Is this not what you planned on?

You don't care about my brain now.
I've got a reason to say goodbye.
You don't care about my brain now.
You chose to do this, now I've gotta say goodbye.
Break me, in half, frozen, time passed.
It's true right now, that you have fucked my mind.
Just see, in your heart, trust flees.
You assaulted me. I trusted you. Please take this away.
You've violated my soul.
Bye. I'll keep breathing. Try to stop me.
Remembering every minute.
And I say, you better step down from your throne.
I'm gonna make it on my own.
Come on, let's say goodbye.
You cause disaster, and lie about people raping you.
Come on, let's say goodbye.
Because I know, I want you to die.
Bring my mind, back to, those times.
I lived through, you really crossed a line.
Can you feel my heart, breaking?
Bye. I'll keep breathing. Try to stop me.
Remembering every minute.
And I say, you better get down from your throne.
Because I'm gonna make it on my own.

For REDACTED and REDACTED
There’s magic in the air when you smile,
Like Ben whispered to the stars, “Make it worth their while.”
He toiled in the ghost-light, soft and unseen,
Spinning fate’s web in the quiet between.
Now here you are—radiant, witchy, true,
A soul stitched from moonlight and lavender dew.
You walk like you’re blessing the Earth with your feet,
And somehow still manage to make mystery sweet.
And REDACTED —oh REDACTED your velvet-eared sage,
A four-legged whisper, a pup-wise mage.
Teaching REDACTED with patience, love, and grace,
Tail wags and lessons in a dog park embrace.
You are my altar, my rest, my roam,
My storm and my still, my heart and my home.
I’ve been tossing love your way like pennies in a well,
And now you drink from it—God, that feels swell.
Years of goofy gestures and awkward flirts,
Of clumsy poems and heart-on-sleeve shirts—
All led to this ease, this breath, this fire—
You letting me love you, and stoking desire.
So thank you for being, just being so you—
A prism of light in all that you do.
I love you, adore you, and now I can say:
You are my safest, most spellbinding place to stay.
—With all the chaos and calm in me.

Steady with you:
Oh REDACTED, my steady, my gender-divine,
You strut through life like the main gay storyline.
Beautiful beast of brilliance and sass,
Serving high femme, soft butch, and a lil' punk class.
You're living your truth like a glowing gay comet,
While I'm in the back yelling, “Yes babe, you got this”
Every word from your mouth about your sweet tiny crew
Makes my heart do cartwheels (and other gay shit too).
You’re a parent with power, no cis model can touch—
You love so loud and fiercely, it’s almost too much.
And by “too much,” I mean perfect, in every loud way—
You’re a bedtime story and the chaos of the day.
Your touch? Like thunder. Your laugh? A spell.
Our sex? Honestly? A horny gay hell.
You melt me down like queer fondue,
And babe, I dip just for you.
You’re my safest space, my softest crash,
My favorite disaster, my serotonin stash.
Like, even when you’re a menace and forget where you put stuff,
I’m like “God, I love them,” and it’s never enough.
And let’s not forget the sacred gay rite:
You yelling “THROW SOME BREAD” mid pillow fight.
Peak romance. Pure kink. The height of foreplay—
Sourdough? Rye? Slap me with gay.
So here’s to you, my hot mess miracle,
My queer cosmos, tender and hysterical.
I’d choose you in every timeline, even the cursed—
Because loving you, babe, is my gay little thirst.
Steady on, starshine. You’re the poem and the punchline.

For REDACTED (internet community is still community)
We’ve never met, but somehow I’d still lend you a hoodie and talk about the moon like she owes us rent.
You're just a lil internet beam from the clouds and stars sliding into my digital life like—“hey, wanna be wholesome?” Yes. Always yes.
We’re two ghosts in the grid, posting like cryptic sapphics, mutuals but make it ✨divine intervention✨.
I admire your vibe like it's a well-designed cottage with good lighting and a dog that doesn’t bark at queers.
You and I? We don’t dream of labour, we dream of screaming "I love you!!" at our friends like it's a full-time job with benefits and a snack table. We dream of pajama diplomacy, of spreadsheets that just say “have fun” in Comic Sans.
We are the CEOs of Soft Living™ in a world that wants hard edges. Cultivating cozy like it’s a radical act. Blankets, tea, chosen fam, and the occasional chaotic meme about frogs or trauma or both.
REDACTED, you mystery of mist and mirth— thanks for being the kind of person that makes the comment section feel like a living room. Keep floating in the stars and clouds, I’ll be here cheering you on from my end of the algorithm, wrapped in queer joy and a throw blanket.

Ode to REDACTED Orange (Yeah, I Said Orange)
Oh REDACTED Orange, rare like a door hinge—
Wait, no, I swear I’ll do better, just give me a syringe
Full of rhymes and caffeine and backyard delight,
Where you grill like a god every barbecue night.
You’re the pit boss prince, the sizzle sensei,
I’d trade my whole gender for one rib, any day.
You command that smoker like Mario Kart roads,
Where you drift through life and explode cheat codes.
Your board game shelf is a damn museum,
Strategy so deep, Freud couldn't see 'em.
You’ll betray me in Catan with a smile and a shrug,
Then hug it out after—I’m like, “This game’s a drug.”
Behind the lens, you're a wizard, a phantom,
A flash goes off, and suddenly I'm handsome.
You find the light in places dim and strange,
Snapping souls mid-laugh, mid-hiccup, mid-change.
And don’t get me started on Hearty Animal—man,
You made me feel feelings I didn’t know I had.
I’m listening like, “Bro, this is tender as hell,”
And then you’re back to talking brisket rubs? Well—
That's the balance you strike, sweet chaos and calm,
A hug wrapped in sarcasm, a joke with a balm.
You’re the bro who knows crying isn’t weak,
And still roasts my ass once or twice a week.
So here's to REDACTED, the BBQ bard,
Rhyming “Orange” was hard but not that hard.
You're a loyal-ass legend, a pal to the core,
Now shut up and pass me the controller, I swore—
This time, I’m beating you. (Definitely not.)
Okay, rematch. Final Destination. No items. Let’s rot.

“Text Beat Resurrection (for REDACTED)”
Yo—
REDACTED the mystic, rhythm in his whiskers,
Chef with the blade and the verse that delivers.
Slick with the skillet, kicks like a killer,
Bassline thinker, punk-rap spiller.
We been through the grit, pain in the marrow,
Days got dark like a Cradle of Pharaohs.
But bro got back, no cap, no sorrow—
Found his tomorrow in the light he can borrow.
Held space like a monk, heart raw, no filter,
Eyes of a child with a soul off-kilter.
Beat drop divine, text style, off meter—
Still got that snare like a punk drum preacher.
Yo we almost lost grip, hands in the mist,
Time tried to drift, but the bond still clenched.
I watched you rise from the ash like myth,
Now you chefin’ up love, high heat, no glitch.
REDACTEDand you? That’s cosmic fate—
Two stars in orbit, aligned real great.
I can’t wait to meet her, toast that plate,
Two hearts cookin' up joy on a twin soul date.
I'm proud, man—like tears in a booth,
You the proof that the groove can renew the truth.
Sobriety’s a sword, and you wield it smooth,
Now you dance in the fire with a brand new groove.
REDACTED the legend, REDACTED the flame,
Name etched deep in my bloodstream’s name.
Still feel young when we talk that game,
Like the text beat’s callin’ us back to the same.
So here’s to the future, the wife, the sound—
To the nights that lifted us off the ground.
To the kitchen, the mic, and the life you found—
REDACTED the king. Long may he crown.
Our masks fade, but the soul still loud—
And the rhythm in my chest got that REDACTED pound.

REDACTED the sage, the Philly-based beast,
Where tech, taste, and talent all meet at the feast.
My dude got the drip like a busted hydrant,
Every ‘fit curated, bitch—he’s vibrant.
Wears ten hats, master of all trades,
Making Donkey Kong blush in them jungle shades.
Got gadgets? Yup.
Got style? Please.
Got art so raw it could drop to its knees.
Our chats? Therapy. Our bond? Divine.
Our WoW raids? Historic—ain’t nobody touchin’ our line.
We cleared out dungeons like queer crusaders,
Pixel gaylords, spellcast invaders.
I’m talkin’ potion poppin', tankin' aggro,
Your boy’s got flame breath and a rainbow flag glow.
But hold up—pause that track. Let’s talk Kart.
You in first place? Baby, don’t even start.
You drive like a goose in a tornado spin,
Meanwhile I’m flexin’ with three laps in the bin.
I drift so clean, it’s a sin in six countries,
You cry in the corner while I’m munchin’ on munchies.
It’s cute how you try tho—real dedication,
But lemme send you a map to the loser station.
Still—
I’d pick you as player two in this life every time,
Your soul? MF DOOM beat—rare, complex, sublime.
You’re genius, you’re beauty, you’re glitchless perfection,
A radiant beam in my bro affection.
REDACTED scored a king, and I get a friend,
From texts to real life, you transcend.
You’re welcome here always, you stellar-ass witch,
You beautiful nerd, you immaculate bitch.
Our love? It’s gay. It’s fierce. It’s canon.
No patch notes needed, we already bannin’.
So let’s toast with pixels, espresso, and sass,
To a bond built to werk and forever outlast.
You feed the world with your wild-ass art—
But bitch you still ain’t winnin’ Mario Kart.

Ode to REDACTED
(For REDACTED, chaos queen and cornfield christener)
We met on a farm, like queer folklore says—
Me, nude in a cornfield, swinging bat-shaped clichés.
You, the boss lady from Coll Audio lore,
Probably wondering, “What HR violation just walked through my door?”
Years passed like dogs through your yard—fast and loud.
I bounced through cities, heartbreaks, and clouds,
But your voice stayed steady on the other end,
A weirdo lifeline, my boss-turned-best friend.
Then—boom—Hamilton. Crashpad secured.
You opened your door, and I ugly-cried (cured).
You handed me REDACTED, my ginger delight,
And told me, “This one’s weird, she’ll fit just right.”
You breed dogs like a gay witch brews spells—
With ethics, intention, and poop bag smells.
REDACTED
Each one with more attitude than Prince in lace.
(And speaking of Prince—girl, relax.
The shrine, the vinyls, the purple slacks.
We get it. He's your spirit guide.
But even he thinks you’ve maybe over-applied.)
Your boys are growing, kind and wise,
Not surprised—they’ve seen your size...
Of heart. (That thing’s a liability!)
But damn, your love has utility.
So let this poem be the sass you need:
It’s okay to break, to ask, to bleed.
You're not alone—you’ve got this gay,
Your cornfield streaker, here to stay.
REDACTED, you’re magic, chaos, and grace,
My favorite dog witch with the wildest face.
Now stop being humble, accept this truth:
You’re iconic, hilarious, and proof
That love, real love, wears mud boots and sings Prince—
And laughs at trauma while feeding her mutts minced.

Ode to REDACTED, the Yarn-Spun Hurricane
REDACTED, oh REDACTED, you crochet beast,
Yarn in your lap like it’s a holy feast.
You’d stitch through a riot, a blackout, a flood—
With REDACTEDbeside you, a loaf made of pug.
You strum that ukulele like a queer bard spell,
Singing soft gay chaos—we all know it well.
Your voice? Like honey with a sharp little bite.
Your sarcasm? Weaponized. And honestly? Tight.
And then there’s REDACTED—majestic, brainy, composed,
With a PhD glow and golf clubs in tow.
How did you snag someone so hot and refined?
Clearly your uke songs rewired their mind.
Together? A duo of vibes so intense—
Like if indie film met queer academia nonsense.
You: in yarn armor, chaotic and bold.
Them: writing dissertations, intellectually cold (but hot).
Our friendship? A campfire of sass and delight.
We’re the weird little stars in the queerest night.
So here’s to our mess, to sarcasm and thread—
And to REDACTED, who farts while we forge ahead.
And REDACTED.

Ode to REDACTED, My Lifelong Punk Goat
You chased me through the halls like some crusty mall cop,
Grade 9, Lorne Park, I swore I'd never stop
hating your guts—stoner strut, wide grin,
But turns out, you weren’t a villain… just baked and oblivious within.
Fast forward: seventeen, angst on tap,
Bass in my hands, you with six-stringed wrath,
REDACTED on drums, all flailing and mean,
We conjured hell—our little Rhythm Fiend.
We didn’t fit in, and fuck fitting in,
Metal and punk? Yeah, we blended the sin.
Kody’s basement, my porch, suburban decay,
Screaming our lungs out like it mattered that day.
Your goatee grew wild, possessed by the void,
Now you look like a goat who just got unemployed
From a Satanic farm, all fury and smoke—
The angriest punk goat, straight outta some joke.
We were weird, we were loud, and we bled for the song,
And somehow, somehow, we’re still tagging along.
Still writing, still riffing, still weird little freaks,
Still chasing that feeling that swallowed those weeks.
And dude… I tattooed your name into my goddamn leg.
So I guess you're stuck, like a drunk with a keg.
You're ink in my flesh, a brother, a scar,
A mosh pit companion, wherever you are.
So let’s keep on screaming, ‘til our joints scream back,
Until the strings snap, or the world fades to black.
From enemies to allies, from then ‘til the end—
You’re more than a REDACTED, you’re my lifelong friend.
…But seriously, trim the goat beard before it achieves sentience.

Ode to REDACTED — The Beat Behind My Life
I knew who you were long before you knew me,
A soccer pitch, chaos, and Gordon’s decree:
“KICK THE BALL, REDACTED!”—echoed across time,
Like a war cry from Essex that rattled my spine.
Hallway fist bumps in grade ten’s grey haze,
Sup at smokers corner? The start of our phase.
Then came grade eleven: a sacred skip day,
Me and Ambrus off course—“we need fresh air” he’d say.
(Still the dumbest, most brilliant shit ever uttered.
Fresh air in REDACTED’s basement—fully weed-buttered.)
We were stuck like sap ever since that green spark,
Said the same dumb things, carved rhythm in the dark.
You on drums, me on bass, REDACTED all shred—
Rhythm Fiend was our Frankenstein, stitched from the dead.
We made noise, not sense—punk and metal delight,
Summoning ghosts in the basement each night.
While other teens partied, we tuned our disdain,
To a beat that said, fuck fitting in, let’s cause pain.
Then came Durox—oh sweet, minimum wage hell,
Selling bricks to rich dicks who could go fuck themselves.
“Best price?” they’d whine with their bloated gold cards,
We’d roll our eyes harder than punk rock guitars.
But you met REDACTED (who I worship, no joke),
And suddenly love hit like a backstage chair broke.
We moshed at Smash Wrestling, smoked weed in the lot,
Watched you move in, fall deeper—love plot after plot.
Now you’re in a house, like a full-grown-ass man,
With a swim spa—sorry, I meant HOT TUB... damn.
Frank the dog is a king. Pure stoner fluff.
Mailman, husband, and friend—that’s some grown-up stuff.
You and REDACTED? Tattooed on my leg.
Candy hearts and all—no regrets, no begs.
Just inked reminders of love and loud days,
Of beats we both carried through life’s sideways maze.
So here's to your big heart, your stick-tapping flair,
To Gordon's war cries still floating in air,
To “fresh air” basements, to wrestling dives—
To a friend who still makes the rhythm in my life survive.
And if you ever sell that swim spa...
I'm peeing in it first.

“REDACTED and REDACTED: The Sword, The Hood, and the Scrabble Board”
Once upon a VHS tape, in the Kingdom of Cozy,
Lived REDACTED the Wise, with her tea and her posy.
She read books by the dozen, played Scrabble with flair,
With a glare so sharp even Merlin would scare.
She’s got lasagna that could end all wars—
Dad crowned it king, and we know he adores.
With Jeopardy instincts and crossword finesse,
She conquers word games in a cardigan dress.
She’s got no cats (respect), no dogs at her feet,
Just a calm cottage vibe and her shows on repeat.
She’s the queen of the call, the text, the “I’m here,”
The Grammy supreme with her love so sincere.
And then—REDACTED, a thrift-store sorceress true,
Turned pain into power and made it look new.
She sings with the heart of a Disney deep-cut,
Like if Maid Marian formed a lesbian strut.
Guitar in her grip, harmony in her soul,
She stitched up her story and made herself whole.
With kindness that glimmers and care that expands,
She mothers and nurtures with magical hands.
Her home is a circus of love and delight:
The girls, the laughs and chaos by night.
Soon a baby will join them, with thunderous cheer—
Plus Wakka, Marcie, and Finn the poop-seer.
Yes, REDACTED wrangles poop with mystical grace,
While REDACTED sips her tea in a Netflix embrace.
Two powerhouses, one gentle and chill,
One raising a kingdom on hugs and goodwill.
Together they’ve held me in storms and in laughs,
Like Archimedes yelling at Arthur on drafts.
We’ve danced through disasters, cried over wine,
And texted each other “you good?” all the time.
So here’s to my women, my witches, my crew,
You’ve always been legend—so here’s something new:
Let’s rob from the heartaches and give to the joy,
Like Robin and John with a wink and a ploy.
Let’s watch Sword in the Stone and yell “SQUIRREL!” with pride,
Eat REDACTED lasagna ‘til we all need to lie.
And if Finn eats poop again—well, that’s on him—
We’ll laugh ‘til we cry and then do it again.
You’re everything. I’m lucky. I’m yours.
Forever.

For REDACTED (and Cali, obviously)
We met on an app (Hinge I recall), swiped into fate,
Two queer gremlins tempting the date—
A cat and mouse game, played slow and sweet,
Now you live in my brain on eternal repeat.
REDACTED, you're a thunderstorm in silk sheets,
A shaved-head siren with tattooed receipts
Of every feeling, every fire,
A living zine, punk rock meets sapphire.
You thrift like it's sacred, you nest like a spell,
Your house could be featured in Cottagecore Hell
(in the best way), with trinkets and candles and charm,
That makes even my cold heart feel warm.
Cali’s your co-pilot, ride or die dog,
The queen of the couch, the toast of the log.
You two are a duo, so easy to adore,
Like gay Thelma and Louise but with better decor.
You're tired right now—hanging by threads,
Rest tangled in pillows and soft blanket beds.
But you, dear REDACTED, are still blazing bright,
Even stars need darkness to light up the night.
I love you in the queerest way—deep and loud,
Tender and weird, emotionally proud.
I think about our smooches (yes, those few!)
And whisper, damn, how I still think of you.
You show up in ways that most wouldn’t dare,
Like “I got you” stitched into every care.
You're beauty and chaos, soft power, pure grace,
And that buzzcut? Literal art on your face.
So here’s a love letter, stitched in gay prose,
To my stunning bestie, with a heart that glows.
Rest when you need. You’re seen. You’re divine.
You and Cali are etched into this queer heart of mine.

"Clown Shoes & Cut Cords”
for B.D. 1989–2017
You were a thundercloud in torn-up sneakers,
spitting razors through teenage teeth—
called me Pugsley like it was a curse,
a joke passed around the hallways like a lit joint.
I hated you for it.
And then I didn’t.
Grade 9 myth:
Ben is bad news.
Ben is broken.
Ben is burning.
All true,
but none of it made sense 'til the party—
you leaned in, said “You like Converge too?”
And suddenly,
it was us vs. everything.
You,
skating like the pavement owed you something.
Me,
driving you from spot to spot like it was penance.
We bonded in the bruises—
shared our favorite riffs,
our worst decisions,
our deepest hungers.
Gnaw Mean was our band,
our exorcism,
our middle finger to the clown shoes world
that never once laced up for us.
Now I’m dragging your ghost across basslines,
wrestling your screams from old demo tapes,
patching your soul into power chords—
finishing this fucking record
like it’ll bring you back.
You didn’t get soft.
You didn’t get clean.
You got gone.
Suicide don’t come with liner notes,
just echoes and blame
and a never-ending track
of what ifs.
But even dead, you’re obnoxiously loud.
You sent me REDACTED—
you made sure I noticed her.
Even when we barely spoke,
you played medium through her lips,
cut through my grief like you always did:
a punchline with a pulse.
I get it now.
You were always trying to give me love,
just didn’t know how to wrap it
without breaking the box.
You were fire,
you were teeth,
you were realer than any rumor ever dared to be.
And I still hear you
in every drop D breakdown
that rips a hole in my chest.
Ben,
thank you for the noise.
Thank you for the mess.
Thank you for the music.
Thank you for the people you shoved into my life
like “Here. Try again, idiot.”
I’ll finish what we started.
I’ll turn your memory
into a war cry.
GNAW MEAN lives.
And so do you.
Louder than ever.
Forever.
Goodbye.