poetry

I’ve blown over 30 sets of candles in my life.
Most birthdays spent wishing I could sing.
I remember the last time I asked for this one thing,
Realizing I don’t have the necessary vocal strings.
But could put into metaphors, lyrics what I think.
I stopped wishing there and then, on my 10th,
For a voice that’d give me strength, just I wait.

30 doesn’t sound like a lot if counting my breath
Warm whispers that keep away rapid death.
30 reps pump my chest, 30 degrees is hot.
30 likes on a poem’s a lot, 30 on my selfie is not.
30 years young I decide will not bring me stress,
Bring on as many second adolescences as I have left.

For my birthday this year, I wish for a full fridge.
So that with it, I can build long, delicious bridges.
For my family, friends, lovers to be here with me,
I wish my homies are healthy, happy, at peace,
And for many more years, share stories and tea
That might spill, and show off our vulnerability.

I wish to fall in love constantly and against all the last decade’s wishes, stay single. As in centred, focused, whole, in what most of my self-help books have foretold. Life is worth living because of the people we keep around as we get old. I hear the birthday song, the beautiful melody, the voices in unison and join the chant with my mediocre tune. My lifelong worth of wishes came true.

I sing myself a happy birthday because I get to celebrate it here with all of you.

Today is my birthday.

As the years pass, I feel like I’m evolving into a body and mind that better fits the old soul I was born with. Although inevitable, it is a privilege to age, especially in the LGBTQ+ community, but what I would like to celebrate today is the opportunity to grow. Grow up, grow fond, grow apart.

An early memory that I can pinpoint rapid growth to was when I, age 6, wrote a confession to my parents about who had clogged the toilet with toilet paper. They had cancelled my sister’s and I’s nightly storytime and that would not stand. I had to act, swallow my shame, and leave them a letter at their bedroom entrance that must have said something like: “It was I, I clogged the bathroom and, worst of all, said nothing when storytime was cancelled.”

Decades later, I remember writing what I’d say to my school’s Head of Program after a couple of bullies, who caught wind I was gay, started to throw homophobic threats around. Eventually, this conflict led to me coming out to my parents. Without a script, I rendered my emotions in real time during that Zoom call home, kicking off another era of massive growth in my life when I “formally” joined queer spaces and started to befriend my fellow gays.

Dating and being alone at bars sucked. I wish someone had warned me, I think there were lessons that didn’t need to be learned through experience. I’m extremely grateful today for spaces like The Birdhouse for the buddy system and their practices adjacent to the Good Night Out Campaign. In this last year, I’ve noticed a younger vibe in the crowd at some of the bars I frequent. Some are incapable of saying “I’m not interested”, “not right now”, “please don’t touch me” when unwanted attention comes their way, others, stunned when that unwanted attention doesn’t take a hint to back off. I see myself in them.

I wrote this spoken word poem from a night we came together to celebrate another year of our lives passing by:

Well hello there Daddy.
I caught you looking and thought to say hello.
I’ve seen this on a porno, how these things go.
“What are you into? What are you looking for?”
I guess, a short convo or to get down on all four.
To submit into obedience in a kink experience.
We can both play our roles, say it’s coincidence,
To find guidance in another generation’s resolutions.

Instead, you offer your hand and ask to dance.
So close to midnight, I see it’s time and give him a chance.

Knowing we’ll recreate dynamics from before.
From when we were boys and didn’t know more.
Tell me Daddy, did you have a Daddy to call you son?
Or buddy? Or bro? Or baby? Or boy?
Did you have someone to say you’re valuable?
Without queer role models to show us the hopes,
On sex or intimacy, how to untie bondage ropes.
Tangling my neck on all these cables and cords,
I’m choking, I can’t breathe, I let the pressure go.
Out of one patriarchy and into another. I say no.

I look for things that’ll ground my concussions.
Your crow’s feet, furrowed brow and bruises
Remind me of my muses, past, present, future.
Age befits your years of experience and culture,
Your fingers in my hair untie curls with nurture
Soothingly against the grain of a calm brain.

This is my kink, agency to see if we’re in sync and
What’s meant to be addressed by a shrink.
Have we met before, Daddy? I was but a twink,
Fresh meat at a gay bar, my glasses tinted pink.
Looking for greener grass, getting ass grabbed.
The sexual revolution says to get your needs met
But even people leaving the sex party say meh.
As if that’s the point of it all, to get your dick wet.
Not the safe spaces for the rest of the alphabet.
Not the right to exist, you have it, so you forget.
Not the shame taught everywhere as a preset.
The default morals I recall and bring me regret,
Versus the gay values reducing me to an asset.
Hard earned, liberating, blissful gay sodomy.
Personally, would that make my best self happy?
To have 30 random stranger loads inside of me?
Would it cure me? To assimilate foreign culture?

Under pressure? Fuck no. Freely, I don’t know.
The lack of conclusions glitch with my delusions.
Daddy, I recognize you as my reality fractures.
Plot twist, reparenting myself in a meta rupture.
In your eyes, Father Time shows me my future.
I’m in a modern orgy of what feels right for us 3.
That I’m present Me, I’m Daddy, and I’m Baby.
New Year’s a step closer to that state of mind
Where I don’t perpetuate outdated philosophy,
Whilst adapting ideas that preserve my sanity,
Integrity’s reconstructed protecting my inner child with
A confident introspection I practice and embody.
Midnight. Alone on the dance floor when a man comes up to me.
He asks for my name. You can call me “Daddy”.

Being able to verbally request and provide consent is oftentimes not prioritized by men. Historically, bathhouses, circuit parties and cruising communities thrive on physical expressions of interest. It’s imperative and fun to learn to recognize and apply these cues in those spaces, but outside of them, they seem more like outdated survival strategies for generations and legal frameworks that should be more aware of power dynamics.

Suddenly, I’m being addressed as “daddy”, “zaddy”, “stud”, even “sir”. I find myself on the other side of my experiences: I share with friends the weight of responsibility I feel on my shoulders. I don’t want to treat these men like I was treated and I’d rather carry this awkward awareness forward than continue to inadvertently perpetuate harm between us. Some say its a heavy burden to carry, most have simply grown used or fond of it. Others deny and gaslight the idea that sexual assault happens around us, best to grow apart from those people. I’m relieved there’s more public conversations facing the challenges of entering gay spaces for the first time, providing advice and validation that for me came later in life when I felt heard and seen in friends’ stories.

Dating and being alone at bars still kinda sucks. Recently, I went out on my own again, like I did years ago when I came out, knowing now the impact of meeting at least one friendly face. I went out knowing my worth and the difference that makes in who and how men interact with me. I went out confident in the work I’ve put in so far and how strange it will feel to change. I went out on stage to compete for the biggest ass competition, and lost.

There’s plenty to celebrate today: the community spaces that allow for vulnerability to exist, the privilege to age, my 31st birthday, the confidence to speak my mind, and most importantly, the growth of a social circle, aka my friends. It is mainly through them that I’m de-aging my old soul, like a gay Benjamin Button, and relearning what it’s like to be included, safe and silly. I’ve grown into what my therapist would call my Protector persona, partially because of the years, but mainly due to the kind and understanding connections around me. I have no doubt that my Protector is a kaleidoscope of me and all the past, present, good, bad, long, short friendships I’ve had the opportunity to interact and learn from. Thank you for helping me become a person capable of saying, kindly and unapologetically, “no”.

I love you all, as friends.

Watch this video of Luis telling his story!

When I was young, I went through a collage phase. I probably looked all around my house for whatever magazine I could get my grubby hands on. I specially recall the damage to a beautiful special edition magazine of Princess Diana.

I know this because my mum told me after asking her about this botched magazine she, to this day, still keeps around. I can only imagine how my mum felt after I destroyed it. Our relationship has had its ups and downs, but in my mind, my mother is deeply associated with the image of Princess Diana and their admirable capacity to be graceful to those who need it most.

I grew up as a pretty happy child up until late middle school when I became depressed, as many other gay men have at some point in their lives. Again, my history with mental health has its ups and downs. I’ve banked my share of hours with therapists but recently I’d plateaued in my progress. Last year, I made a breakthrough. I honor my story by highlighting the importance of taking yourself to therapy.

One symptom I keep a look out when gauging my state of mind is my capacity to find beauty in life. I believe a sense of beauty is a psychological skill we can train or lose. To see it, notice it, name it, replicate it. At my worst, I stop watching TV shows, I stop eating sweets, and I isolate myself. Inversely, I write more poetry when I am processing negative emotions, this skill has allowed me to tap into my sense of beauty and pull myself out of a downward spiral. I’d like to share a spoken word poem about what I think psychological beauty is:

I’m on my knees. The congregation says Grace.
I look up towards high ceilings, the tainted glass,
Dramatic imagery in art, stone, oil, wood, brass.
Engulfed in what they say is beauty, yet I don’t see your face.

My favourite part of going to mass is leaving.
Outside, street vendors sell all types of food.
Outside, what is actually a religious experience
Tastes like fried, steamed home cooked goods.
Outside, I eat sugar just to help boost my mood.
My sister and I resist the Sunday public shaming,
My parents show us grace, your beautiful face.
I’m not asked to go with them again, embraced,
and still picked up for a meal, my soul’s soothed.
Coming out decades later, I still seek sanctuary.
The figures I look up to had a wardrobe change:
tiny underwear, leather jockstraps, tails, fangs.
I’ll say it again, out of one patriarchy and into another.
Penis penance. Men moan confessions to each other,
Some carry a cross, others prefer to be tied to it,
Time’s still spent on my knees doing other things
Giving or receiving Gay Communion. I don’t sing,
But what comes out my choir has a similar ring,
The sound of falling icons and featherless wings,
The premium and peace speech therapy brings.

Confess.
Humbling, paying alms to sort unclaimed shit out
Going to counseling cause someone else did not,
What’s that about? Tinted glass bias, guilty eyes
Projecting self esteem into simple average guys.
Confess…
People can be “nice” but very unkind in thoughts
Because that’s how people pleasing comes across.
Truth is I’m scared of a drag queen’s entourage,
Cunty vibes encouraged, community sabotage.
Confess!
I don’t trust men to be a secure emotional space
I’m afraid that’s a reflection of what I do, am too,
If I use authenticity to camouflage my true face,
Interpersonally challenged with a deep lack of self awareness.
At least that’s my impression.
Doctor it’s been two weeks since my last session
Our last convo has become my confession, I pray:

Grace. For lack of a better word, I ask you for air.
Begrudgingly, as a child you brought me despair,
Betrayed at how empty your brand made me feel
If your love depended on God, others to be real.
I prayed the gay away for years. I couldn’t dare,
Be associated with such a strong feminine name.
And still you’ve forgiven me, as is in your nature,
To mold me as a kid, teen, adult, with true nurture:
Not idealized under judgment but understanding
Of my delicate features, my edges, how I feel injured.

Dented by your many falls from grace. Disgrace
Means facing that which lives in the dark, fowl,
Scowl, I crawl and brawl and embrace them all.
My beasts take a breath as I feed them a meal,
My demons are cordial if I listen and let them be
My hells are manageable, if I show myself ways
To renounce a saint’s life, see myself face to face.

The point was never to climb back up to Grace,
But to hold you as we go down and into the ground.
I found, we can find sanctuary in this hellscape,
Through a loving, poised, graceful, headspace.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and depression has a way of placing a gray filter in front of those who battle it, which makes asking for help a bleak task. As a gay man in therapy, I’d say most of my work depended on unlearning behaviours, overcoming trauma and learning to embrace love, uncertainty and the freedom to be my best queer self. It’s messy, trying to figure ourselves out; I know I struggled with not knowing who I could be. I documented my journey of self discovery using social media, each post made me value the beauty of being able to find beauty in a life lived. Each post’s a puzzle piece with rough edges and contradictions, each attempt gave me clarity about who I was not, diversifying my self image whilst unifying my confidence. I welcomed the New Year with the following poem:

One choice makes me larger
Another makes me small. Decide: do or do not.
Two parties playing tug of war on a dance floor.
What would secure men do in this circumstance?

Get down, boogie, focus on the tempos for once,
Be the baddie that gets low, create my own flow.
Try to understand men’s body language: a glance.
Eye contact. Hello. After that you’re on your own.

Quick turn to see if you’re still looking. You know,
I wrote a spoken word poem about this moment,
But there was dialogue, actions, scripted truths.
The countdown starts, fumble, miss my queue.

I’m putting pressure on myself to not perpetuate
That which was done to me. I hesitate and wait,
For impulse to shake the electrodes off my head.
Regress to make progress, act before I overthink.

If it’s still within me. I’m sure. I’ve gotten this far,
276 [281] posts later yapping of the glory and gore
Of being gay in 2026. Now for a new resolution:
To give myself the grace I’ve always needed, evermore.

Despite synonyms, I was conflicted with resonating to the word “grace”, I knew of her but talking to her, through therapy and poetry, made me feel like I was being reacquainted with an old, healing, friend who knew I could be my worst qualities, and still saw me as a person worthy of love. If I try, if I succumb to my fear and bail, if I get depressed again, grace can be a colorful filter to feel aesthetic, confident, even regal. And that feels sourced from within, feels like me. Like an inverted vision board, my life regained value because I prioritized this feeling whilst posting about travelling, cooking, existential, surviving or in the words of another incredible graceful figure, Catherine O’Hara:

“[Taking] a thousand naked pictures of [myself] now. You may currently think, “Oh, I’m too spooky.”, or, “Nobody wants to see these tiny boobies.” But believe me, one day you will look at those photos, with much kinder eyes and say, “Dear God, I was a beautiful thing!” Oh, and make sure you submit those photos to the Internet. Otherwise, your own children will go looking for them one day and tragically, they won’t be there.”

What groundbreaking conclusion psychological help has bestowed upon me is realizing that I find the capacity to look past “the cringe” with the love and kindness my mum, Princess Diana or even Catherine O’Hara would have given a loved one quite beautiful. Counseling, speaking, writing, sharing my thoughts, gives me a space where I can see beauty, notice it, name it, and replicate it by being more graceful to myself and hoping it’ll make me more graceful to others. Changing my point of view so that the world might seem changed, too.

Tag: poetry

Beauty: Luis’ Story