I need your worship, boy —
come home and put yourself
under the sole of my boot.
Flatten yourself beneath me. If
I toe you off the floor,
only then is that your signal
to rise. I need your spit,
boy. Down your chin soaking
the split of my jeans. Open.
The soft of your lip kissing here
and here, I need that, too.
I forget my worth. I forget
how much I can control the rise
of the sun. The rise of the walls
between us. I forget how much
I can evoke the me that will
be able to solve this problem.
The me that likes to puzzle and
forgive. I forget what it is not
to have what I have, and the ache
that never goes away, even after
the finest meals, the lushest wine,
the perfect starshine redwood
grove. Thank you
for reminding me with your eyes.
with your tongue. With your open
holes. Thank you for every time
you beg, though I can’t say it to you
then — I can only tell you to beg
harder. You deserve your atonement,
your devout surrender, who am I
to tell you otherwise. Who am I to
change so unapologetically into
someone I might actually love to
spend the rest of my life with.
But who am I not to? And who
am I, really, to stand in the way
of your worship?