he tasted like sins and regret and wasted septembers and burnt-up gin
and his eyes looked at me like nightmares, i promise
this was never a migraine for the insane nor was this me at midnight,
all curled up against the mirror sobbing a spiraling hymn.
i say, hell is real, i’ve felt him;
hands touched, fingers interlocked; i’ve seen the way he looks at me
like he wants to curl up next to my heartbeat, like another
mellowed down pop song on this dysfunctional radio.
boy, we hurt, we hurt, we hurt.
hell is real, i’ve made love to him
watched the ruin flood bodies over west coast, worst coast
ah. i curled into him curled out of him watched him
curve up and against me like a tide stretched out
and hung on a washing line to dry- oh the sin of breathing and being.
well i told you on the phone today that i live in a closet made of bones
and i am my own skeleton, told you all those tales
about boys who loved boys who loved boys who loved-
i live there.
i dream there.