between the crevices of my lips,
there is orange soda no longer carbonated, hibernating
until i wipe it off with my sleeve.
sometimes i like myself, when the caffeine dissipates
and my anxiety subsides.
are you loving yourself? are you taking care of yourself?
i didn't shave in the right places,
i didn't comb my hair this morning.
i've grown fond of my ***** roots or at
least that's what i've been told.

i touched myself this evening. i caressed every fold
and counted the lightning bolts to help me sleep.
masculinity is torturing. the bed springs attach to
my spine, embracing my face. there are no second chances
in heaven; in purgatory we have no one. cuts under my eyelid
tell me i'm ageing, but this is what happens
at the edge of history.

i can no longer pretend or hide. the newports grapple
my esophagus and i have been pinned.
why this and not that?
tomorrow is our spring awakening, and whether i'm up or down
or left or right - my sense of direction is permanently broken.
tonight.
i know one thing is certain. there is no love, no harmony.
i touch myself.
for a chance at true intimacy.