I fail at relationships. It’s what I do, have always done.
I lack an explanation. I have good intentions; I respond
promptly to telephone calls, e-mails and text messages.
I show-up for meetings on time, dressed appropriately,
and I pay my share. I do not argue or make a fuss.
I mail out thank you notes, send condolences, follow
the rules of etiquette. But, truth is, I am not good at
being with people, never have been. I am now and have
forever been an outsider, an alien. I believe I may be
from another planet. Sent here as an observer, or as
an exile for reasons I can’t recall. Either would be fine,
if only those who sent me, would check in once and a
while to let me know I am where I am supposed to be
and doing okay.
There Was No One There
I feel their hands on me.
they touch private places.
They hold me down
molest me and more.
Tears stream down my face.
My body burns red hot.
I want them to stop
and I want them to continue.
they say; don’t tell,
don’t say a word,
this is your fault,
you wanted this,
and I remained mute
at their command.
Frank Adams is a Lambda Literary Foundation Fellow in Poetry. His poems have appeared in various on-line and print venues including: Down-go Sun; Iris; Glitterwolf; Chelsea Station; Q Review; Vox Poetica and in Between: New Gay Poetry.