(to the poet, before whiteboys):
1. He will comment on your skin, the first
night. Will say how soft and smooth it is,
that it is like nothing of this earth. He will
feel you unidentified and extraterrestrial.
You are. You are.
2. He will ask you about your lips. Your
hair. If you know that one song he can’t
say all the lyrics to, because no one should
really say that word. You will convince
yourself he’s right. He’s wrong.
3. His friends will check if you are a real boy. Outside of reaching in
your pants, they will choke some answer out of you. Interrogate your
asshole, make sure they have nothing to fear. They do. They always
do. It is not you.
4. He will eat you. Call you cocoa, and cherries, and pomegranates,
and peaches out of season. Your flesh will run down his cheek and you
will lick it off. He will swallow you. Whole. Or in pieces. Or slice you
as tendon, debone your chest, pick out your red meat. Call you palpitation, ask you
to be his veins. He will tongue the marrow from
your bones, suckle your joints clean. He will gut you in five courses.
You are satisfaction.
5. His nodding head and agreeable smile are an optical illusion, he will
detract white light through opaque prism you call being. He will be
sedation, or hypnosis, or impenetrable haze of searing sensation. This
is sickness, he is disease.
6. He will only ever ask you to fuck him. You can only ever fuck him.
And still you will be fucked, over and again, and by choice, or what
you understand as choosing. You will choose survival. You will choose
dominance. You will need submission.
7. He will buy you. He will try to fit you into his pocket. Every
transaction will cost you — more. He will name you gratuity. His tip
will be spare change afterthought. All of this is economy. You are
goods. You are services. You are luxury. He does not afford your
8. His mother will pull back her hand after meeting you, rubbing your
shadow off her skin. His father will examine you as evidence, as
residue, a polite autopsy. They know. You will kill their bloodline.
9. He will hold you where you lay. Spread you the ends of your geography, your flinching: a border crossing. He will smother you, in
subtle gestures, his fingers will cover your hilltops and valleys. He will
make your waters thick and murky, siphoning your shores, filling it
with his own waste. You must pull your own tide, back into your sea,
back into your ocean, back into your bones.
10. You will know him as love, as backseat near the train station, third
floor bedroom, faded Kansas State sweatshirt, beer-smelling
basement. But he will be noose, he will hang you from your own
bedsheets. Your twisting rot will feed his lust. He will not know that
you are of the root. That you are the leaf, the bean, the grinding. That
you are your purest form.
Originally published in The Offing.
See all the pieces from 29 Days of Beautiful here.