Perhaps one must be hurt
To be a poet
It seems like it
Many here should maybe
put down the pen
meet
and give each other some

Secretly I wonder
How many are hiding

This ardor is wasted on us
who find emotion and sex incongruent
who have enjoyed or suffered hundreds
genders random, names forgotten 
or never known

So many have chosen 
To have their lives “destroyed”
Who hold grudges instead 
of just touching again

Did you think that union was real?
Stop kidding yourself
Even if you murdered them in jealous rage
and killed yourself in remorseful sorrow
You died alone