well its you that i hold on to.

Tonight is fake prom.
and i am inside, intoxicated and desolate
just like real prom.

we promenade, kiss on the mouth and lust as we're conditioned.
we hold hands, pet eachothers eyelids and indulge in secret love affairs while the kitchen feels lively below our naked mass.
provide me with a climax. give me death. give me sex.
i'm counting my demons. you're stationed in that wooden chair of yours, the one right in front of your computer screen that i sat in once trying to play guitar secretly while you showered and i pretended to feel nothing being in your special 'you' spot. but i've lost you.
why must i dote on you. you bastard. you lovely, special being.
i'll save the summer of ’77 for those who made it out alive. i can see the moon in the marquee where plastic letters spell out the first time my parents fell in love.

and yet, in much variance
I cannot stand your gentle hands, grotesque in their tenderness.
Fingers like tentacles, those jellyfish palms.
(i could do this myself, and i thought about it only seconds ago, but the pinacle of my pursuit is almost too suddenly achieved)
he is my iron-bound and jagged star, lovely to bits, and it seems i wont yet quit.
suddenly, fortitude becomes a hard word to swallow.