Lust as corporal punishment, implies we kneel on each other for pleasure.
boy: a gadget I stomach on sighting my father watch me pull the least
non-binary stunt I’m capable of.
I— double-edged pronoun, perishable filth.
Pa tells me— ‘snithe every thumb that points towards your thigh’.
my knee, polished into amazement.
I arch my back with ripe grace, & fall into shape.
a rebuttal to the soft-meated claim, that:
a) ache is tenderized hardship.
b) thigh at rest is hot argument lying-in state.
c) all thighs in motion becomes dangerous physics.
the mechanical grease of skin, alarming Pa in all the right places.
I’d have him know queer is volatile:
both knee, riding one way into blood-soft bliss & wearing out.
autumn, ramming through effeminacy under the wingspan of zephyr’s lawful caressing,
bruising bedsheets of breeze in the smallest of moaned decibel.
I still wear the wind, this malodorous air trapped under my loin.
the weight of language— press to my lip. thighs, ripening a quiet noise.
how color spill against the bright body of word till it bleeds meaning,
empties itself into grammar— barefaced, as we rupture into sound & ampersand:
a roughening. the neat prank of my loin,
modeled after a calmness in the quiet heat.
dusk reminds me, I too am capable of luster.
a large chunk of me, sold to light. miniature leakage of flesh— fluorescent bright.
I’m ghosted by sweat, the way my skin torches at the sound of grief.
happiness is a hard-nut-to-crack.
I am munching my bliss— every bit of it.
I skip the raw detailed niceties of life,
teethe on a lusting, unabashed.
the peelable pronoun in the valley of my back:
a testament to how I love my gendering— bone-clean & slightly devoured.
this is how we stay edible,
unshelling our bodies till the magic burns out.
we all arrive at climax or nutting.
either way, a hard-nut-to-crack.