Pumpkin

I’m red-headed.
I also come with really pale skin.
that burns bright red in the summer and
in a lot of ways I’m not really sure where I come from.
Ryan Michael Creery.
How mixed-bag-anglo-Protestant-privileged does that sound?
I’m red-headed.
Some guys ask me if the carpet matches the drapes.
Some call me ginger
wondering if I really am empty inside
like a zombie.

I wear glasses.
I was never called four-eyes in school,
but people like to try them on
and find out everything I can’t see.
For so long
I couldn’t see why all my friends liked girls
when I just liked them.
So, you want to kiss Charlotte McKenzie behind the choir bleachers,
but I just want to camp with you
in my backyard and hold your hand.
It was so confusing,
but somehow it still seemed simpler back then.

There was one time, you called me Pumpkin.
I’ll never know what you meant by it,
but I know it wasn’t what it seemed.

I’m gay.
I’ve been told blind and deaf people could tell that.
I guess that means you could call me a fruit,
a cakeboy, a dandy, a faggot
(though if you do you’ll end up with a round of hags
that’ll whoop your ass).

I wait to hear you call me Pumpkin,
cut and carve me—jack-o-lantern.
Hollow me out
and bury your hands in my guts
to try and find my tremble, clench my core.
Take out my seeds,
pull out my seeds,
rip out my seeds
until there’s nothing left but a face
that smiles upon you.

I’ll let you in even knowing you might tear me apart.
I’ll let you in to echo in my hollow spaces.
I’ll let you in.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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