you roll up your sleeves to show me your
guns, the kind you got from living here,
not the ones that got you here in the first
place. the only thing more precious than
vanity is freedom, both a choice, only one
of them yours. six months ago i wouldn’t
have believed it, but here we are, not even
pretending to be something we’re not,
intimate and obscene. when we talk, i hear
you chewing. i hear you jerking off. alone
at night, i rewind and replay the way you
say my name as you finish while someone
else touches me. we want each other with
a ferocity that’s feigned, but what i wouldn’t
give to take off your clothes. what you
wouldn’t give to be eight years old again,
in norway. or was it florida? you’d do what
you were told, never complain, eat the most
inedible chicken tenders. you can redeem
that meal, you can redeem anything. just
add garlic and cook until golden, for two
minutes, or twenty years. tell me your biggest
fears: are you afraid you’ll die in this place,
or are you more afraid of being undesired?
it’s almost september, and your only hope
is that the boy who loves stephen king will
show up on a sunday. there are endless
ways to say the same thing so i’ll be frank:
the last thing you want is to be forgotten.