My boy is 

absolute porcelain. 

Shattering, 

carved. 

He speaks to me like his sister, 

bruised and smiling, 

he kisses me like a woman, 

sad and meaningless, 

foaming at the mouth, 

his lips 

slick with feminine spit. 

My boy is 

sweet and sour, 

he’s broken his leg once before, 

and cultivated a 

fear of falling. 

My boy’s soul is a bathtub, 

tepid and hungry. 

Its fingers envelop 

me, frozen. 

He was a funeral when I

had gullibly assumed that he was a wedding. 

My boy likes tangerines and oranges, 

lemons and limes;

He peels their skin till they are nothing more

than juice and flesh. 

And then he bites.