thepoetboy

i was a dog. i came when you called, sat at your feet by the fireplace even when the coals were too close, too hot for comfort. things like that don’t matter when you’re sitting in the lap of your master. the collar was too tight around my throat, and i’d veer off the sidewalk when you took me out in the hopes that i’d choke. there’s a spot at the edge of the bed for me. i’m supposed to be honoured by this scrap. your wife lies in the cold spot next to you, and i’m obliged to take what’s offered, because your scraps are better than meagre me. right? wrong, says the wolf. she peels back my la

i. “il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie,” she says, and i scoff. ii. there’s blue welts peppering my cheek and a thick cut on my upper lip, bandages over my fists. “your nose is bleeding,” he says. “thanks,” i say, “you did that.” he laughs. iii. my nose is still broken, when his bumps it. iv. “i don’t know how,” i say, “we got here.” he laughs. v. “of course,” he says, “of course i will.” i laugh. vi. my nose is still bent out of shape, but when my fingers skate over the pages, “il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie,”

and i will always say i’m sorry and i will always say i’m fine when the apples of your cheeks and my knuckles, they collide and i will always say i’m sorry about the bruises on your neck and i will always say i’m sorry that i’m not what you expect and i will always say i miss you when we’re in between the sheets but when you miss me most is when i’m missing you the least and i will always say i’m sorry when you always say you’re fine but the thing is these apologies are all inside my mind

one time someone told me: a tiger does not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep. and i stood below the summer thunder with my umbrella unfolding before me in vast planes over my head, my wild heart thrumming like the jungles i was bred for. tigers do not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep. there are stripes painted in asymmetry over my body, over the flowing capillaries in my wrists and the chambers of my heart. i wear my stripes like i wear my ribs: with pride and shame. and all my life i’ve been lauded like a lion, taught like a tiger, brought up like a boot— but i am an ant in a world of sheep, and i’ve got no c

i swore i saw the symbolism. there was so much rain, that it could have sufficiently diffused the sun. she hadn’t yet been chilly, but in the coming weeks she grew weak, recounted the motto: bone thin is beauty, baby. stuck by the mantra, and she swore she saw the symbolism. but metaphors were always out of her grasp, and idealisation idealised. the steps had turned into waterfalls and the gutters faucets, and the sun, no matter, carried on behind curtains. she spoke in synecdoche, ribs representing the entirety of her entity. she spoke in parables, ice, bare: epitomized the venom clinging like an emblem. she laid out her e

in my dreams, he’s not as pretty as he seems. maybe it’s my heart telling my brain “it’s not what it’s cracked up to be”

i. an asphyxiating fixation affliction roils in the coils of my trachea, bubbles at the bottom of my spine, snakes a line up the vine of my vertebrae and as it winds, bides time bewildering the blind. makes furrows in each eye socket, stoops a handkerchief over mischievous hollows, dark caverns: dredged. ii. i cannot see. like lady justice, but nowhere near as sensible. twice as dense, i rely on the mind; but as it files grievances, defers to the heart. and with a start, iii. i can hear. roils in the coils of my trachea untangle, bubbles at the bottom of my spine boil down, snake lines down the ridges of my rachis and as it

he takes you in his hands and surrounds you like a snowstorm. impedes your vision, blurs clear sight. wander too close, you might impale yourself on the icicles that hang off him. and while it may be true that, he is cold cold cold to the core, your body is a fever, and even winter ends.

sickly pale, deathly pale, his skin the colour of a new moon, a false god in the dim light. they always said, "we look down on idolatry" and i never knew why, i always thought the symmetry of sacrifice spoke brutal truths about the nature of Man and God the romans did it why can't i? enamoured by the fallacy of honesty, i break the lambs neck with my left hand. and with the other, i carve patterns. old enochian and languages spoken by those buried in history and time. (or maybe those are the same thing?) he's like a roman dream hair in glorious disarray; triumphant i paint myself a picture, burn the lamb burn the ashes, burn my fingertip

he enters a rooom. steals the breath from my lungs; makes me airtight. he crooks a finger at me, beckons, (and god, i come); i get up. he's my waking nightmare, the poison i suck from my veins, the antidote i crave; he's my sleeping dream. he enters a room. steals the breath from my lungs; makes me airtight. i have no room for anything but love. he's