poem/

did u feel desirable

when He bent u over

His hair trailing

down ur back

tip-toeing memories

down ur spine

is He fucking sin

out of u

or are u

murdering Him

in Hot Blood

taking the life of a Promising Young Man

where is the line between

gifted and impressionable

and why is the finish line

always a lonely, foggy town

why is salvation only ever

a black mask,

     at the tip of a knife,

            or underneath His Heaving Chest

how many more nights

will u spend touching urself

to the flashbacks of His Knuckles

withdrawing from u

red and warm

how many more years 

will it have to be like this