I stand here on a street corner,
daisy dukes and fish nets,
my favorite Metallica crop top
floating up on moonlit skin.

Monster truck inching close,
breath pacing through the city streets,
I walk to the edge of his dark lair
to bite any hesitation.
With curt words and close heads
I smell the whiskey in his breathe.
Pulling into the alley's grip,
I let him lead and grit my teeth.

"Shhhh, I won't get busted again."
the whiskey whispers against my ear,
"Don't make a peep."
Then I'm not sure if it's man or whiskey
who turns me around in callused hands.
He spits first,
entering with a grunt,
and my hands slide down the window with each ******.

5 minutes.
I horn honks in the distance, long and mad,
as whiskey man unloads on my back,
along with his long, satisfied growl.
That's it, with a reluctant 20 bucks,
and I'm back biting the wind.

My mind is blank,

   where I should be tumbling
   over everyone who gives me love
   and ****.

Over every mother who informed me
about the "real world".
Over every leader who told me the "real words".

   Even my own self,
   queen of no *******,
   even I've been washed away.

Even I've been
                             saved for a better day.

His muscles are tightened
and my intestines twist in my stomach juice.
His eyes are glued to the glowing screen,
but mine trace the curves of his back, shoulders, and neck.
I close my eyes and feel his touch,
his soft caress and tender ******.
My hands and fingers through his hair,
his chocolate skin and everywhere.

I open my eyes to the TV's glare.
Light shines back across him,
an arms length away from my burning.
I bite my tongue and hold my breath,
only breathing again at the fantasy
of someone loving me.
Saving me.

He's right there and doesn't know
how he makes me cry inside,
every time he moves an inch, laughs out loud, or-
god forbid he turns around.
He does just this, an looks at me,
smiles that smile and pats my knee.
As if he feels for me.
Won't you feel me please?

At home I lie in the dark,
trying to smell part of him on my clothes.
Nothing.
I stare at the ceiling,
my mind too full to let me close my eyes.
I'm only able to smile,
though I know I will later cry.
His image ingrained for another sleepless night.

Every time I see a beautiful girl
that I want to kiss,
I feel less self-conscious my self,
because every time I am reminded
of how **** us women are.
Yes, especially in our too-big
***** t-shirts
and bed-head  hair,
we absolutely ******* gorgeous.

Hey-
everybody listen,
I think I have just discovered
the one advantage
of being gay.

Oh yeah,
for the win.

Yesterday was like spilt milk. Each time I folded the shirt it became imperfect in a different way, mocking my calm face and salad fingers. My current occupation is crying in an empty bathtub, imaging floating in a space where my brain can be separate from my body. Where knives are for vegetables.

Yesterday was yet another existential brain ****. Mother stood in the shadow doorway shaking necks from afar and my teeth retreated into their gums with each mental earthquake, nailing deeper the words I try not to think about, softening my surface.

Yesterday I decided to eat my tongue and forget thoughts as soon as they come.

May you feel the hunger inside
subside by the tip of my tongue.

May your every fantasy and more
be born through the touch of my hands.

May you cry out into the night
that you might see yourself through my eyes.

May these moments be nothing more than love
when the morning shows a pillow gone cold beside you.

Amen.