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Dandy Lion
(c) 2016, Ryan Creery
The quilts, the quiet;
the weekend we only ate sushi
then rolled ourselves in the sheets
like ghosts, like goblins,
gobbling gluttonous—
for granted.
Leaving curls on his pillows,
he called me Dandy Lion.
In weekends, in time
breezing through so fast
taking it in only in the
moments between
the pages, the distance.
The silences, the spinning,
how sorry we were
when we tried to look back,
how hard it became to look
forward, for ourselves.
I’ll tear you apart, said The Truth.
Leave those memories for better things.
And we did.
We left
for better, for us.
The distance saved us
and the memories left us happy
enough.
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Candy Bowl
(c) 2015, Ryan Creery
Camus told us,
“The act of love…is a confession.”
Our hearts;
They can’t always hide
from the guilt of “I think I’m falling,”
or “I think I’m bruising.”
Fighting forgiveness,
you might find yourself on your knees,
throat-deep in guilt,
that maybe you can stain yourself into camouflage.
It’s not that easy
to swallow your own bullets in the confessional.
You can let them
dig their hands down your pants
like a candy bowl,
but the fruits probably aren’t so sweet.
Take back your words and all you have left is:
naked.
Some hearts need something a little bigger than that.
Without love,
there’s no reason to hope.
Without love,
trust has no currency.
Without love,
there’s nothing left at stake.
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Ryan Creery is a Managing Editor by trade, poet by avocation. He’s had two poems published with Eber & Wein and was named one of their Top Poets of 2015. He’s also had his non-fiction piece published with Huffington Post through Oral Fixation.
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GAY FLASH FICTION 