the boys I rescued
and turned to saints;
their features outlined in
filthy thoughts    I

let them touch me with
rinsed fingertips,
watch them take great pleasure
in stroking the arches of my bare feet;
my callouses holding proof
of the miles I have walked
to hug the west.
better than my own docile traces
of lust pressed against them;
my own famished touch
as I dip into my cleft and whimper
because I can’t come big enough.
that sweaty heart of male violence,
male wants,
eroticized guns,
learn the art of being
enthroned in your
those biceped tongues,
those blue black nights where I fuck to get the
battle out so they don’t
accidentally drown a garden
they were supposed to love.


other nights I do it hard,
grip the keys and shout sometimes;
let the room fill with copper, lick myself
from the chain,
taste my own
my submission to myself and
let you understand the dangers of
eroticized pain;
the art of being bled
for your sex.


smudged lip gloss
on their bare cheeks,
my undoing.
      teach me how to love like war
my persistent
inner child,
hands out and
crawling to you,
barely fed, swallowed by
red     lonesome and
under you,
next to you,
over you,


but yet still a shadow
at your nightstand
waning in your rising


“the martyr” (#7)

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