●Neon Planets and Stars*

There was a sweet poison in his touch like lead paint that enters me through my tongue.  A sweet masculine teen voice that filled me with earness. Our secret games amongst the shadows of the bedroom upstairs on the second floor. Pink rose petals and thorns multiple the walls of the room my grandma bought for her four boys. 

Once it's gone, you don't realize it.  A small pink canary that escapes and never returns. I find myself at 27, looking in men's eyes for what I lost. I laugh too girlishly. I smile from the apples of my cheeks until I see me reflected in the stars of their irises. I dance in their irises.  I make myself tiny and vulnerable, hunching my shoulders and slightly learning forward. Attention, desire, lust.

Desire me. 

My little hands were held down by his big ones.  The air from the fan blew against my skin, a slight cool breeze amongst the july heat. 3:23 am was displayed in red analog numbers. I watched the neon stickers of planets and constellations glow in the dark on the spinning ceiling fan.  He told me I looked like a little girl.  I was his beautiful thing.  His secret love.

Desire me, desire me.

I couldn't breathe. The peanut butter on his dick, had pieces of nuts that scratched my tiny esophagus. The bile collected in the back of my throat. But he was my big foster brother who didnt let anyone mess with me. He let me be as girly as I wanted to be. I remembered seeing a moth as he tried to penetrate me. I cried. 

The moth laid dying, under moon and starlight, stuck inbetween a screen and window pane. 

I go to bars. Walk the side streets at night. Go to sex parties.  I'm addicted to finding my little pink canary that used to fly in me.  I ride dicks, deep throat them until I can't breathe. In breathlessness, there's a nirvana.  A Sybarite Eros fueled dream. The world fades away and I'm left with thunder in my ears. I can't find pink canaries, so drown me in sweat, cum and sweet silence of my own thundering heart beat in my ears. Light headed

I love you, I love you my beautiful thing, dont cry. 
Desire, love 
Months dying.

Moths sit in my bronx apartment window now. This time fluttering.  Sometimes I think, I'm too familar with bringing men pleasure.  I lose myself in it totally, a cat in heat. But only, it's not a heat.

It's cold. I am cold and I try to warm myself on dicks. Make me feel love. If i am desired, if I am beautiful then.  I am lovable.  I am worthy

My canary left.

I see the truths in the dancing imprisoned moths. 

Sex is not love, but sometimes a prion, mad sex disease, that makes you realized a touch can be as deadly as tainted meat or dead human brains.