After Chen Chen
after falling from his training
bike with two, samaller wheels attached
to the back for more balance. Crying,
with scraped knees & shins, he’s hushed
& told that it’ll be alright. We’ll clean it up.
Gritted teeth. Peroxide. White bubbles &
foam. Cleansing the wound. The sun shimmers
in the early morning sky like your eyes
after kissing me. Like our watery eyes
after laughng at our own jokes, after
calling each other faggots. Boys will be boys,
painted nails & all, can’t stop joking. Laughing.
Kissing. Crossing time zones in the A.M. Vanilla bean
ice cream for breakfast. Backseat heat. Backseat
fucking. No, love making. No, just sex. No,
roll us up in a carpet & ignite us. We’ll transcend
in the warmth. Morning rises
like me. Hurt, broken, sweaty. 9 A.M. &
it’s a goddamn heatwave. Your lips are moist
pressing against my forehead. Good morning. Crushed.
Wounded. Pained from your dick
in my ass. It’s another sin to be a bottom. Maybe,
it’s not gay as long as a cock never penetrates you?
Maybe, you can hide behind the fact that you grabbed my ass,
called me hot, bit my lip as you kissed me, precame in my mouth
if you vote red? Maybe, God, too, is queer?
Maybe, I’m still allowed to fall down, face-first
to the concrete? Cry. Fail to grasp at my own emotions. Ask
for forgiveness. Love. Abandon resentment. Feel
helpless. Worry that you’ll walk away. & you, like a parent helping
up their toddler, grab my hand. Again