We give in sometimes

My precious boy lover,
Imagine this:
You canít stand another
minute of me. Iím not talking
about the way an editor canít quite tell
a good poem from a bad one
any more or work up the guilt
to give a damn --- whatís inevitable,
though not whatís memorable either,
nothing intense or terrifying
like, say, the feeling when flames
begin to blister and char your feet,
igniting, so to speak, or the fear of
your god insulating you.
No, nothing so distinctly painful
that itís easy to cry out for it
to stop or that understandably
leads to homicide on its own, but
more like a hangnail you canít bite
close enough when you havenít got
a clipper, how it catches and tears
a little more whenever you forget
and reach into your pocket until
you have to think too much about
your movements. Feel that? Good,
now add a hemorrhoid and an itch
between the shoulder blades
and simultaneously do your
best to think of love, and if
you can, weíve got a deal.
Author's Note
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Hallucinostic Fivefoottwo
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