There are ordinary boys.
And then there are boys
who stick an arm down your throat
and grasp your heart.
Digging through your entrails
while your teeth rub
against the socket of their elbow.
You drool and it pools around your lips
and drips
to their armpits,
tickling down to their ribs.
There are boys
who you will write poetry for
as an offering
a gift
an insecure gesture, to say
“Please like me,
for I have gilded you in gold,
and therefore
you should love me
for the sheer fact
that I love you.”
Then there are boys
who demand poetry.
Who keep you awake
at all hours of the night,
purging your brain
of their details.
Hoping
you can capture them on a page
and then capture them in the world.
You are choking
with his hand in your neck
and his fist around your heart.
Your aorta pulses.
And so does your aching pussy.
You write to calm the craving.
To corner them in ction
And say
Finally,
I have conquered you.