My sweet-breath flower boy-
with shattered saucer eyes,
putting silent somatic smile sparks
on the kisses of my cheekbones.
me in my dark iron swaddling,
reminds me that there’s more to life
than being born in Dallas,
and will never, EVER let on
that I pluck my bellybutton hair.
who will raise his own sails
using the ropes that bind me to this
skin cell teal table.
licking my wounds for me,
gaining nothing but the sharp,
stigmata stains slashing at his watercolor skin.
My pale-faced white friend
who always bites the hand that
him and now me.
and it’s that delicate tea set
China-fragile hand debt that flitters
Over my retinas when a man says
Kind, gentle trash-pollen boy who
knows so much of what it means to
be a man that the negative
connotations of the title
I am sorry
that he bakes and blossoms,
but if he gave in to the
oven summer sun parch,
I would wilt, as well.
I am not sorry
For the flexi-bone calcium bend
I can see through his shell,
because my boi flies and crushes
in an absinthe finger song;
like a Tricky Tori Trip-Hop bird,
rises in me like bubbles in Liquid glass-blood,
and I would rather boil alive
than have skin.