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.
Written by heyycyanides
Published | Edited 5th Sep 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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