the martyr

the boys I rescued
and turned to saints

features outlined in filthy thoughts,
fingertips that have taken great pleasure
in stroking the arches of my bare feet,
my callouses, miles I have walked
to hug the west,
better than my own docile traces,
my own famished touch
that 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,
let you understand the dangers of
eroticized pain;
the art of being bled for your sex.

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

shadow at your nightstand
waning in your sun.


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