coffee and cigarettes keep me convinced that hope is childish. that i would be a fool to wake you up, turn you over, see your bright eyes open to mine. to hope for your recognition.
i am tired of sleep, distempered with rest and placation. i want you to bite me and leave marks. i want you to grab me and leave bruises. i want you to hurt me and leave love behind.
i should be walking the dog; i should be buying fresh produce at the discount grocery; i should be putting the books back on the shelves. i should be carrying water and fire every day for you, the mechanization of care and careful kindling.
some weeks ago, a strange man read my writing and said it was not poetry. some months ago, a hated lover fucked me and said i was not queer. some years ago, my camp counselor found my adolescent journal and called my parents. marks, all, and none deserving of the words i waste on them.
buried in the richness of your cunt is all of my peace, and safety, and hope. if i am sluggish in the ways i move to make you cum, it is only the exhaustion of having finally reached this place.