“Beautifully Flawed: Becoming Me, Unapologetically” is a deeply personal collection of moments from my life learning to navigate love in all its beauty and all its breaking. These songs rise from real heartbreak—the kind that leaves you questioning your worth—and the quiet strength it takes to put the pieces back together.

This album follows the path of my own life: the first time love felt safe, the times it wasn’t; the nights I held myself through the pain; the mornings I woke up determined to try again. It captures the tenderness of giving my heart, the sting of losing someone I believed in, and the courage it takes to open up once more.

At its core, this is not a story about heartbreak—it's a story about healing. About rediscovering my value, reclaiming my voice, and learning that my heart still has room for joy. These songs are proof that every scar has shaped me, not stopped me… and that love—real love—still lives inside me.

This is my journey.
Soft. Strong. Beautifully flawed.
And finally, becoming me—unapologetically.

Beautifully Flawed: Becoming Me, Unapologetically

most transparent songs I’ve ever written about the queer dating experience. This one didn’t come from a breakup or one specific person—it came from a pattern. A cycle. That feeling of showing up with your whole heart while people show up with half of theirs, or sometimes none at all.

The hook came to me first—soft and breathy like a confession. “Boy, I’m still here.” Those four words say everything: I’m still trying. I’m still believing. I’m still loving, even after being disappointed so many times. It’s not weakness; it’s resilience.

The first verse is me calling myself out a little. I had to admit I’d been letting people in who didn’t deserve the access. Letting the wrong ones stay, letting myself believe connections were deeper than they actually were. And that’s something a lot of gay men understand—sometimes you take what you can get because what you want feels too rare.

But then the verse shifts into something softer, something truer: I love deeply. Slowly. With intention. And that isn’t a flaw. It’s just something that needs the right person to match it.

The pre-chorus is where the exhaustion sets in. I wrote it when I was tired of being everyone’s emotional placeholder. Tired of situationships. Tired of “maybe later,” “play it cool,” “don’t catch feelings.” There’s a whole culture of almost-love in queer dating, and I wanted to put words to that frustration.

The chorus is the heart of the song. “I’m gay and I’m trying to love.” It’s simple but heavy. Loving openly as a queer man is its own journey—beautiful, complicated, sometimes bruising. I wanted to normalize saying it out loud, claiming it without shame or hesitation. I wanted other queer men to hear it and think, “Yeah… me too.”

The second verse dives deeper, into the late-night cravings for connection that aren’t just physical. The desire to be touched with meaning, not convenience. To be seen as a whole person, not a fix for someone’s loneliness or curiosity. It’s sensual but emotionally grounded—because queer intimacy is layered and multidimensional.

The second pre-chorus is my prayer for stability. For a love that stays when things get messy. Someone who understands that softness and struggle can co-exist.

The bridge is the soul of everything I’ve learned. Sometimes love doesn’t show up when you’re ready for it—it shows up after heartbreak has shaped you. And even though I’ve been hurt, I’m still open. Still hopeful. Still leaving a space in my life for the right man.

And the final hook? That’s me reclaiming my strength. Saying, “I’m still here,” but no longer in desperation—more like an invitation to someone who deserves it.

“Boy, I’m Still Here” is for gay men who feel like they’re always loving more than they’re loved. It’s for anyone who’s tired of ghosting, tired of pretending, tired of being almost-chosen. It’s a reminder that being still here—still open, still hopeful—isn’t a flaw.

It’s courage.

Boy I’m Still Here

“He Was My Home” is one of the most personal songs I’ve ever written. It came from a point in my life where I truly believed I’d found someone who saw me—really saw me. The kind of man who walks into your world soft and calm, and suddenly every guarded part of you wants to come out of hiding. The first verse is exactly that moment: the quiet hope, the fear, the relief of letting someone in after a long time of protecting yourself.

There’s a line—“He held my hands like they’d never break.” That one still gets me. It captures what it feels like when someone makes you feel safe for the first time in a long time. And when you feel safe, you start giving pieces of yourself you don’t offer to just anyone. The pre-chorus is about those pieces—the fragile ones, the bleeding ones. The parts you think someone will finally cradle gently… until they don’t.

The chorus is really the emotional core. “He was my home.” That’s something not everyone understands, especially when you’re talking about queer love. Sometimes we find “home” in a person long before we ever find it in a place. And losing that—losing a home you built in someone else—hurts in a way that’s almost physical. I wanted listeners to feel that cold shock when warmth suddenly disappears, when someone you loved with your whole self turns around and walks away like it was nothing.

The second verse dives into the small, everyday promises—Tuesday nights, whispered forevers, names spoken like they meant the world. That’s what makes heartbreak after deep intimacy so devastating. You’re not just losing a person; you’re losing the life you quietly built around them. When I wrote the line “One morning he stopped reaching back,” I knew it was the turning point. Sometimes relationships don’t end with a bang; they end with silence.

The bridge is the part I struggled with the most emotionally. It’s about the echoes that stay—the empty bed, the heartbeat trying to remember how to feel whole without him. It’s the slow process of unloving someone who once felt like the safest place you knew. But it’s also where I remind myself, and anyone listening, that resilience is real. Even broken hearts keep beating.

The final chorus is where I take the power back. I realized that a home that leaves you isn’t a home you can stay in. Loving him didn’t make me weak—it made me honest. But learning to let him go? That made me stronger. By the end, the song turns from mourning into reclamation: “But now I’m my own.” That line is the healing. It’s the moment where loss turns into self-return.

“He Was My Home” is for anyone who gave their heart to someone who wasn’t ready to hold it. It’s for anyone who had to rebuild themselves after loving deeply and losing deeply. It’s for queer love, for soft love, for brave love. And it’s a reminder that even when someone walks away, you can still come back to yourself.

He Was My Home

“Learning How to Love Again” came from a place of rebuilding after giving my heart to someone who didn’t know how to keep it. The song is about being broken open by love, but choosing—slowly and painfully—to believe in it again.

The verses reflect that raw honesty: admitting I gave everything, admitting how alone healing can feel, and admitting that strength doesn’t always feel like strength. It’s about trying to let go of someone who left, while still holding onto who I’m becoming.

The chorus is the core of the song: I’m scared, I’m healing, but I’m trying. Trying to trust again, trying to open my heart again, trying to believe that there’s a man out there who’ll stay. It’s not a victory cry—it’s a hopeful one.

The second half of the song leans into vulnerability. I talk about embracing the soft parts of me I used to hide, and wanting a love that sees all of me, flaws included. The bridge is the turning point—a moment of hope, imagining love returning gently, and giving myself permission to let someone in again.

In the end, the song isn’t about the heartbreak—it’s about the courage to keep going. “Learning How to Love Again” is for anyone who’s been hurt but still believes love will find them when they’re ready. It’s the sound of healing in real time.

Still Learning How to Love Again

Causin’ a Commotion

This song captures the moment I stopped seeing my past as a sentence and started seeing it as a chapter. Writing “Still I Rise” was about honoring my sixteen-year-old self—the fear, the silence, the confusion—while giving him the reassurance I didn’t have then. Growing up gay in the late ’90s, I learned early how to hide, but I also learned how to survive.

The pop treatment is intentional. I wanted the pain to live inside something melodic, hopeful, and expansive—because healing didn’t come quietly for me, it came through strength, honesty, and self-love. This song is about reclaiming identity, shedding shame, and realizing that what was taken never defined my heart or my future.

“Still I Rise” is my proof that survival can become joy—and that thriving is the loudest response of all.

Still I Rise

42 year old gay man who just living life one day at a time

He Was My Home

Justin