i eat desire for breakfast
for Bernard Ferguson
hold me or hold me down. want me or don’t. hurt me
with your hands like knives, hands i have never loved
but have wanted every night for the past five years. i don’t lie
but i have wanted to lie with you. i think of you
in the loosest parts of the night, when the darkness rubs its face
against the edge of the sky, when i am about to fall asleep. last march
i sat on your bed and waited for you to come and sit beside me, the heat of the room
cooking us both. you undressed me. i slid you out of your sweat-stained t-shirt.
i put my hands on your shoulders,
felt your solidness underneath my fingertips.
you warned me not to leave any lasting marks.
even now i want you, if only to remind me that we are real, that we have bodies,
that our bodies can touch
even for a moment. you moved me the way you wanted me,
a doll with arms and legs. i bent and changed under your hands. i have never been
so happy. with your hands like knives, or possibly bullets
you touched me. now i burn with it. i eat desire for breakfast.
i want you to bruise, to bleed, to hurt me
to break me into the pieces i was made out of. i want you to leave