Somewhere, in the cold midnight of Idaho two women prepare to leave town together, ’cause they’re tired of drawing public attention to the way they hold each others hands. Couples in Idaho do hold hands, they just don’t usually look like two women.
| — | Shane Koyczan. (via wishihadglasses) |
You would say: ”Be still, be still my boy.”
Never son, because I wasn’t. Just some boy from a different dad. Seems like our only thing in common was our need for therapy, but we never went. We just spent quiet time together, as if silence was expensive, but we were both filthy rich. A question like “do you love me?” was an itch our doctors told us not to scratch.
| — | Shane Koyczan (via fuckyeahkoyczan) |
For the woman that told me to fuck off after I told her she was beautiful:
It doesn’t matter that you are a horrible person. You are the reason that boys dream of becoming astronauts, so they can man the first mission to Pluto and carve an ice sculpture that resembles you. Then alien passers-by will know that our planet has its moments. Yes, the aliens will probably masturbate while thinking of you, then launch an invasion to capture you for their king. When you tell him to fuck off, the earth will be destroyed.
I only want to write poems.
“For the Woman …” by Shane Koyczan
Visiting Hours
It doesn’t matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesn’t matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who’s faith tells him God’s hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn’t matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I’m either always too hot or too cold. Doesn’t matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pyjamas, and he’s 9 years old.
