I'm a real boy

I am not made
of wood
when I think of you
real flesh caked on
bones, and it bleeds
when pierced with needles
and the wounds get infected
if the sharp objects are rusty
and I am not
made of wood
when your pale skin
shines within my mind
like the moon at night
though there are craters
the light is smooth
and gentle
and I stand on toes
to kiss those full lips
like a were wolf, howling
wet nosed along pale thighs
and in those dark eyes
salivating at midnight
feeling bliss, finger tips
pinch nipple gray
and I must say
as our pelvis press
it's simple like child's
play, and I am most
certainly not made of wood
anymore