my hair has been shorn

and i am drunk off love-letters from the nineteenth century

i want

to be your moon-eyed god-boy

i want

to breathe out stars in your arms

i WANT !

night comes later for you and my words get tangled

and i’m never sure which boy i’m addressing

or perhaps i pine for my own reflection.

after all

homosexuality is inherently narcissistic

is inherently selfish

is inherently painful

( oh, the way your hands might look in mine )

is inherently perverted

is inherently offensive

( oh, the way your lips might look on mine )

is inherently injurious

is inherently disgusting

( oh, the way your soul might look near mine )

i cannot be proud

the butterflies in my stomach are contagious

the curve of my hips is repulsive

the touch of my hand is a death sentence

don’t spread aids

go find a glory hole

i want

to be your hollow-eyed victim

i want

to ride out my hurt in your arms

i WANT !

i will get me into scrapes at two a.m. and i will walk home alone in the dusk of your pauses and i will purse my lips and bat my eyes at strange men because i deserve it

i am a degenerate

flay me alive

beat me to death

touch me where i don’t want you to

i deserve it.

when the world was young they burned our kind at the stake

pretty boys i would have loved

eyes rolled back in their heads

their blood melting like pink roses

each one of their cries a half-starved bird

the angels looked down and saw

and when they cried for us the people thought it was raining

and sighed

and struck another spark to the pyres that had gone out.

not too long ago we died in hospital beds

our lovers pounding on the walls outside

each one of their cries a half-starved bird

the angels looked down and saw

and when they cried for us the doctors thought the i.v.s had dripped

and sighed

and called over a nurse to mop the mess.

my lips blister and i dream of you

my lips blister as i dream of you.

i ought to be able to think about a boy

without a fist on my heart

i ought to be able to think about a boy

without wanting to kill myself

there is certainly someone pursing their lips and widening their eyes at their own reflection

but i am not the one beside the pool

i am not the one trembling with pleasure

at the deaths of pretty boys

i am not the one to eroticise the grave

i am joyous and unashamed

i am bursting with life

i do not need to settle down

i do not need to control myself

my words are purses and my wrists hang limp

like nodding flowers in the honeyed breeze

i

i celebrate

i celebrate myself

oh ! to be what i am

oh ! to love what you are

OH ! to be magnificently

and you, you clumsy boy, spilling your hate all over me

and you, you tight-fisted girl without warmth to spare

if only you could love like i do !

if only you were what i am