I thought you just got off
talking about my cum,
but you’re stretching me out
with my spot in your hand
when it comes to me, clear
and slick—I see. It’s
because I said I wished
I could shoot. I said so
a few times. It’s true—
I only know how much
so once I say it.
Most of the time cis people just walk around,
fucking everybody with their huge stuff
and either cannot or choose
not to see the dark liquid
making cave noise
between the body and an
answer to its question.
Another body, everyone
has that, a moonlike body
in another world.
Most of the time living people just walk around
pretending only transsexuals do,
because we’re better at it
and for much worse reasons.
But could you ever
have another body? God,
I hope not. I remember
thinking, I can’t forget
the freckles resting
on his shoulders,
like an avant garde scarf,
the second time. No echo
in the cave. What could
improve? But I’m sure,
in there, you reach its end
somehow, dodging cars
on a bike, some arduous
activity like that. How hot.
The shady beach with still pools
and the overhang. The afternoon
dark from some quirk
of the land and the sun.
The water dark and cool and a relief
to my God-given hot body,
shaking while you say,
“I wanna bathe in your cum.”
Why does anything I say sound
like I don’t like it? I like it.
All the time! I try to conceive of us,
not planning but settled, and close—
say, within groping distance. I’m trans,
I can’t walk across rooms. I’m trans,
all the houses I’ve lived in have numberless
rooms. Someone told me once, one of my teachers,
that I said I too much. I made sentences.
I started them each time with I. Chris,
I try all the time. I imagine worlds
with us in them but in all those worlds,
I’m thinking; I’m alone. No one else presses
the stalk of their thought on my thought. Chris,
come wherever I am right now—I can’t see the walls,
I cannot feel the molding on the ornate doors.