#bm1

i hope it doesn’t hurt as much as it does now for me.

i want you to hold onto that person.

keep them.

don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

don’t stress over fickle things—

whose turn it is to take out the trash,

who keeps texting first,

how late they stayed out with their friends.

no matter what,

they come home to you.

they think of you.

cherish that.

god, please

cherish that.

—

I craved touch. What you gave me was anything but.

The act of two coming together shouldn’t be painful. It shouldn’t be while one is nearly toppling over. But it was.

I hate poems like this. The victim poems. Forcing its reader into a fearful state using words like “force,” “fear,” and “hate.”

As a writer I can’t sit here and claim I didn’t enjoy it. But as a drunken man taken advantage of in the moment— I focused on chasing that high. Reaching that release. Over and over and over.

I’m 21. Old enough to know the warning signs, enough life experience to put some 31-year-olds to shame. But still young enough to have hope that this stranger— this stranger who saw me on an app, thought I was interesting enough to talk to, call, meet— wanted anything else other than my body.

The body that’s been forced into this situation time and time again…

(I hate..)

—

Today I posed in the mirror.

Big whoop.

But as I analyzed my body

posing… stretching… laughing..

I never once felt bad about it.

I didn’t exactly love what I saw,

but I accepted it.

My reality.

A reality I can change.

That I am changing.

Tomorrow, I’ll look in the mirror again.

Pose.

Stretch.

Laugh.

And I’ll notice that my biceps have finally taken some shape.

That the waist beads I’ve worn for years have finally dropped.

That I finally don’t hate what I’m seeing.

And I’ll laugh.

Not at myself.

But with myself.

Because my journey has finally started.

(Thank you.)

—

You. The way you are has always drawn me. I can tell you know by the way you catch my gaze.

I am a dog tied outside of your house, just barely given enough length of rope to see you. Touch you. Taste you.

If you knew the heated thoughts I’ve had— my hands grazing your skin, my tongue licking your neck… you’d put me down.

Release me from this tightening leash. Anything but accept it.

But that doesn’t stop our jokes—does it? Nor the burning passion I feel to hold you close. To whisper sweet nothings into your ear and soothe your worries.

Sadly, the only thing that has stopped any of it was… your choice of another.

—

If I could insert my hand

into my own shell—

what do you think would come out?

Secrets I’ve kept hidden?

The things I have yet to discover of myself?

Or perhaps garbage…

As anything would spill

you’d do just as many others have—

take.

hold.

destroy.

This false ideation you had of me,

still a ghost

over my actual image.

I am not of the highest order,

highest will.

I am the dust

that collects on your shelves.

The dirt beneath your feet.

The dead bug

you step over on the street.

You see what you wish I was—

not what I am.

(trash.)

—

I have a craving i’m unsure you will settle.

Is it my past speaking for me and not with me?

Why can’t i find comfort in the idea you truly see me for who i am and like what you see.

It’s scary.

The opposite of you.

Your sweet words with gentle meaning.

Your observation skills and willingness to truly accept me.

This purgatory I find myself stuck in with you..it’s frightening.

What’s even more frightening?

The fact I don’t know if pleasure could come out of this.

Anxiety is far too high and even worse?

(you’re a bad kisser..)

—