In the heat of the gay
things get soakingly wed
to each other:
my ethnicities and sexualities
have always known they were lovers,
but this is really taking quings one step further.
Have you heard anything
about the people who insistently ask you about the weather
inside your body, where things get a little noisy
with so many projections all jostling against each other
to inform me
that someone wants me,
yet again?
Someone has fantasised about me,
and played pretend
with my image of them. But not to worry—
just like T'Challa,
I am both kabesa and friend,
and unlike Chadwick,
also your lover, and the beautiful woman-man who encourages you
to do all you can
for yourself.
Don't treat yourself
but seek yourself first. Rewrite what you intend
others to understand as
your thirst.
And then and only then, this island
can finally learn to flirt
with a better chance at reaching heaven. A real chance to attend
to the wounds inside.
The hurts that still descend
into lonely, struggling despair
sometimes, and also
every night.
You know I am here to listen.
You know I am not a prayer.
You know all I can do
is based on what you dare to tell me, whenever we meet and have time to spare
to size one another up.
It really is your good fortune and luck
that I am hyperstraightforward, when I want to
cuddle, and spend some time enjoying the way you finally suck
your fucking ego in, and talk some consent, so that we can finally be really, truly vulnerable with each other.
So that I know what you intend. So that we both get what we want.
It only, after all, actually needs to be win-win.
But if you let naked hunger get in the way of getting what you want,
then, my dear:
your journey is still only just waiting to begin.
No posts