The War Was Already Loss
Life itself is already a cost
for concern. A good Death, or so the implicature goes,
is something that must be earned.
I am foolish, and almost thirty-one; I clearly haven’t learned
what a tautology is.
What a good classroom looks like,
and how to use the right non-binary pronouns.
Definitely not he, him and his —
definitely not you, and me,
finding ourselves together in this
band of rudderless
kin, trying to make siblings out of nations
divided by invisible, pedophilic, abusive men
who want us all to die, over and over and over again
so that they can be gods until the fucking universe ends
and yet, I survived
and as much as I try to not want to believe it,
you did too. Neither of us are heroes
but two lonely, lost gay men
looking for a way home.
You don’t have to pretend
that you don’t want to lay down all your swords
and lie with your penis somewhat mildly erect
pressed against where it hurts on my body. I did not die because I like to tell myself
that one day, the real you would return
and how much longer, brother,
do you need to learn
that I still love you?
I still want you to turn
away from the men who claim
That there are no morals left on the Earth;
that there are no battles left
worth fighting for.
You forget, as always
that I made a promise:
you would always, and always, and always,
be worth every fucking war.