to james gladney, all of you

there are things i keep quiet

in post-coital sleepy:

your passing not-looks to stop hearts
"he was so dreamy..."

the lying awake wondering
how many miles and missed lunches

before your pretty face

i like, in these moments, to pretend that you
could never feel guts move inside a body to
make men believe "you're so pretty i love you"

or "i like touching you" with his nails in my sides
"why?" (surprised)
"because you're f****n' hot!"

i think the beatles where right when they said
happenis is a hard c**k.
in a warm c**t.

when, after, i asked this one
what he was like in school,
"you wouldn't have
talked to me because i was
awkward and ugly" and i
i doubt that's true, but you
might have laughed at him.

when i think about it.

maybe one day, you will f**k brains out like you know how
maybe one day, the moon-shaped row of guards that keep out

--and she thinking they are just right light enough--
twitching, will open, you. sudden, and soft.

so the insecurities of performance will show:
i've only known one man who knew how to know

it's only a guess, how you've played;
i know, just,
wishing i were dressed okay, and
scratching your name
into rainbows in sixth grade.