I’m tired of the polite
****** boy. Sick of the agreeable,
pristine, nonburping, nonfarting
carnival setpiece toy. **** the
manic-depressive psychopathic
angel. The timid, submissive
sleepover homeboy, the blow-up-doll
for rent, the 3am *******
***-dumpster hyphenate.

Imagine me, a child.
The gayboy anyperson
willing to go the extra mile.
I assure you,
this wasn’t the dream.
How you push my buttons
like a vending machine.

I ******* to you
because you’re sad.
I come lick you
because we’re okay.
Always okay. The word.
The sound of the word.
The utterance of the word.
The utter lie of the word.
Okay?
Maybe to you I’m
a toilet-trained twentysomething
who’ll receive and dispense
on command.

Maybe we are done.
Maybe I can cry in peace.
Maybe you still have a way
of curdling the milk
in my stomach from far away.

I pray one day
to **** you out.