I hate the way you
press your chest
up against my

breast—
it strangles me.
White dresses, undressed.

The things you say
when you caress
me with sweaty palms

and stuttered breath against my neck,
your words crawling into my ears
like bloodthirsty insects.

You confess
and digress,
And I laugh at your

foolishness.
Your honesty
is pathetic at best.

You make me sick
with your cigarettes,
your trembling fingers, fumbling hands,

your festering wounds,
their foul smell milling about
inside the ivory walls of my room

inescapable, like the moon’s light
cradled in the recesses of my windowpane.
Your ‘pain’, my ‘pain’,

it’s all the same when
we are one and
we’re undone and

unbuttoned, intertwined.
Too much red wine
and innocence maligned,

and too many
‘I love you, baby’s.

You watch too much reality T.V.
for me to even begin to take you seriously.
You are a toy, a boy—

not a man.
I see the way you cry
when your friends are not around.

With your walls down,
you are shriveled, puny, weak.
You are not a man.

And just because I’m lying here,
underneath you, under sheets with you,
that does not mean that I love you.