Pinterest Called My Ass Out Fr. (I Am Not Still Fucked Up Over [read: In Love With] A Blonde From 9th

Demolition Man

I hate him.

(the chokehold this album has on me is crazy, man)

10.6.24

Going to my little cousin’s basketball game. Driving by an old, painfully Southern Baptist church with tall grass. Eating burgers and drinking milkshakes with the family (something all American.) (Same place, different name.) I don’t remember the town I was born in. Did I grow up in bumfuck nowhere or suburbia? It’s all dizzy. Like a sick kind of merry go round. It’ll never end, I think. Some days. Is it true? Was anything? I have memories that aren’t mine and nightmares that are. 

•Cinderella•

I would break my knuckles and bruise my knees just to hear your name. But you wouldn’t do the same for me cause you’re still in love with a boy who hurts you. [Something that I never could do to you.] I’d cough up my stomaches so you could have pure air in your burning lungs. I have a bullet with your name on it, so when it pierces through my heart, we’ll be together in my dying moment. I’ll wish for the song to slow down, and you’ll wish for it to be Thursday already. I’d give you whatever you wanted; my heart, my love, or my head on a platter. Anything that could make you smile, I’d be happy to tear from my body. But you wouldn’t even want me. When I hear about how they treat you, that’s the first thing that kills me. The second is that you’ve accepted it, that this is your life. The third charming thing is the fact that you'll never look at me the way I look at you. Your mother is cruel, and my father was wicked. We’re cut from the same cloth, two peas in a pod, born for each other. It’s written in every dying star just how much I love you. When I write shitty songs and practice even shittier chords, it’s you on my mind. [Always.] When we met you had red hair and crooked glasses. I was instantly drawn to you. [Like a moth to a flame.] You’re everything to me. Would you give me the time of day? Would you do whatever it takes? Would you kill for me? Would you burn the world to give me a light to sleep by? Would you go as far as I would? Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m manic. Maybe none of this means anything. The only truth I have is that if this was a fairytale, we would be the happy couple, riding off into a rose gold sun. But true love is a hoax and I’m writing to you like you’ll ever see this shit. If you let me, I’d be your prince. [Would you be mine?] No one else’s lips will ever be my one true love’s kiss. 

xoxo

--Spencer <3 (always yours.)

A fuck-you to RFK;

An autistic person will never write a poem, so everything I’ve ever written doesn’t exist. It’s just shit. 

They will never play baseball, so my memories of playing a game with my friends don’t mean anything. I never played a game I loved, a game I was damn good at. It was all a figment of my wild imagination. 

They’ll never hold a job, so there are thousands of doctors and scientists and engineers who aren’t real to him. 

Autism destroys families, so no matter what mine says, they’re lying. They don’t love me. Rather than death or illness, my mind is what will ruin it all. Even though we’ve been happy for 17 years so far. 

It’s an individual tragedy as well, which must mean that me and my bestfriends’ lives are meaningless. A waste of space. Of oxygen. 

Fucking hell.

If RFK (a man stuck in ‘55) gets his way, this police state that we’re living in will just get worse. He wants to use his research to make eugenics America’s policy. That’s what “curing” autism is. There is no cure. There’s only death. Death that should never even be a possibility. A thought. 

No one should be persecuted, or have their genes “eliminated” from the gene pool because of some uneducated twat. He doesn’t get to decide who will be born. He doesn’t get to manufacture the next generation like this is some kind of fascist, Nazi regime. Even in the most clinically “severe” cases, an autistic person is far from stupid or helpless. They are We are people, like everyone else. And it’s not our fault he doesn’t know that. 

Fuck my life. Nothing compares to the feeling of devastation that hit me when I woke up this morning. I can’t believe it. I won’t. The next four years are going to be fucking awful. How did this happen? I actually don’t know what I’m going to do now. I almost cried earlier. I couldn’t shower. I could barely eat. I can hardly process this. I just can’t. I can’t do this. 

i’m in a winter mood, (i’m) dreamin’ of spring now

i miss sitting in the back of a pickup truck with my best friend. playing in the mud and making swords out of sticks. boys will be boys (until one of them’s a queer). We were like family until i came out was outed. if you read this i think you’d know who you are. cause you said i was your only friend and then spat in my face the next day. that awful day. all i wanted was for things to stay the same. all i want is my childhood back. please. my lips are bloody and my knuckles are bruised. i’m the same person i was back then, so why the hell don’t i mean the same thing i used to mean to you?

will people PLEASE stop arguing with me (in real life) and trying to convince me I am gay?? I pulled a Misha Collins. I walked it back. I officially became the only man in Texas ever to come out as straight. So fucking believe me and leave me alone about it. I’m so repressed even if I was into men, I wouldn’t tell you!

also I realize ppl are gonna see this and argue with me about it, but uh, I’m just irritated rn…

with tears in my eyes, I begged you to stay/you said, “hey man, I love you, but no fucking way” or (kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face)

Sorry for professing my undying love for you. Can we go back to just being two dudes who flirt with each other in a really funny, totally one-hundred-percent platonic way? I’m sorry for telling you I thought you looked kissable tonight. When I first met you I fell hard. You’re the reason we got together and the reason we broke up. (Not really. That had more to do with being left on read for weeks.) When you don’t answer I get scared. I even started checking the obituaries by Day Four. I’ve never believed in anything as strongly as I believe you in you. This is love, and it’s bitter. It’s sour, and it’s awful, and it’s ugly, but I’ve felt it in my bones for two years now, so I know it won’t just go away. You’re the rhythm guitar in my heart. I asked you to join my band just so you’d always be there. Even if you can hardly play, you’re still my first choice. I want you with me for the rest of my life. I hope you don’t see this shit. I think I’d die. Well, this is the part where I admit I’m tired cause it’s two a.m. and I’m probably sick again. Goodnight. 

–S.S. (yours)

The body of Christ as a symbol of self-punishment. (or, stigmata)

I’m a seven year old boy’s little green toy soldier, crushed and broken under the weight of his father’s work boots. I’ve fought in a thousand wars. I flinch at the sound of rough hands. God has forsaken me, even in my dying breath. Maybe my prayers never work, not because he can’t hear me, but because he chooses not to. Because he hates what I am. He despises me, yet I amuse him. I am The Divine’s favorite plaything. I’m made of duct tape and scars. It’s a vicious cycle of patching myself up, and falling apart. Nobody hears me beg. Nobody listens to my pleas. I cry out once for every punishing lash of the belt.

For J.

One day you won’t be little anymore. I can see it happening already. You’re almost as tall as I am. Your voice is getting deeper. It’s still cracking at this point and now we can’t sing the songs we used to sing together. You’ve always been my brother, but one day you’ll grow up. It feels like you’ll outgrow me eventually. I think I’d die. You’ll move somewhere far away. I won’t see you every night at dinner and I won’t be the uncle to those three kids you’ll have. I won’t have any kids of my own, but if I did, I’d like to think they’d know you. 

I hope you never leave. I hope we still talk in person and exchange funny stories thirty years from now. I’ll always take your side. Fuck wrong and right—you’re family. And one day if all the shit you’ve gone through catches up to you, I’ll swear on the Bible in a courtroom in front of the law and god, and I’ll tell them that you’re innocent—I’ll be your alibi—even if I know you’re guilty by my own eyes (even if we haven’t talked in years, even if your fingerprints are on the knife). Cause the day you called me brother was the day I decided not to take my own life.