He tops. It’s dangerous.
(Would I let him fuck me?)
I let him fuck with my head.
(or is that still me?)
But if I am homo-sexual
he is homo-sapiens sapiens
and I am homo sapiens sapiens
and he is Man
and I am
man, he is like me.
Dark and dark and dark
and darkly aggressive.
I don’t feel stable enough, to admit to that
I told him one percent.
One. Solitary. Percent.
And one is six, I think.
But the sum total has changed, so
maybe one is seven.
because it’s an uneven number now.
Now, there is a point.
Point eight five seven percent.
One more would be point
point one four three.
And is he, is he, is he
point one four three, to make a total
of one?
I cannot fathom the amount of trust
it would take
I know it isn’t there
that I could be hurt
NOW right NOW
I could still be hurt
am hurt
and cut open and flayed and splayed and bleeding
and I want his touch but I’m
Afraid of the fingerprints he would leave
on my torn and redslick flesh.
Copperful mouth, rolling around
slick stained vampire candies
he bites he says
the world bites. I see.
He says and I see and I can taste
bodyripe chunks sliding like
unagi across my tongue. Eaten
raw and alive.
And would I give over
to be eaten like that
to turn myself into the grinding jaws
and the jagged gear teeth of
another eating machine?
Cut open myself like someone
someone’s chum flung out slick across
the water for someone else to feed?
Another poem about the man I had a crush on early in recovery. Really, this is also about my fear of bottoming, and letting someone else in. It's not something I do often, and I was going over the statistics of that in my life.