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the reason for the blisters

there should be someone reminding you

it’s okay to say no,

and there should be someone reminding you

it’s not always so simple either.

when you’re lying there thinking a man’s got your best interests at heart

(you shouldn’t be thinking about his heart)

because he listened, once,

yet maybe by now he’s just forgotten.

you don’t know exactly how to form the letters

caught in a fear-based, spidermade web

thinking he could force himself on you,

again,

just like this, even if you suddenly did speak it.

he thinks your grunts are moans,

they don’t form the n-o shape,

they lack all enthusiasm, where is the passion,

does he not miss that, crave it,

he must not even notice.

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when you finally peel his hand off of your body,

where it had been tugging your penis,

it flames you up to think about his reaction. his presence.

is he disappointed?

you feel bare and you’re not even naked.

why can’t he just be romantic.

hold you tenderly, trace the shape of your name on the back of your shirt,

do something considerate again.

like only barely touching your arm. asking about your hobbies. 

now every time you wear these leather boots you think about finding your nerve to leave his apartment without appearing impolite

despite the fact he shattered your trust

he listened, said he could be good,

he said he dreamt of this moment

referring to the mock intimacy you’re left with.

(nice is different than good)

you know he whines to peel off your pyjama bottoms and grind against your bare asshole because this is what he expects from every single other boy that should find himself in that bed.

and you shouldn’t have to apologise for your difference.

or pretend he misread a sign.

an erect penis is not an invitation

you curse yourself for having an erect penis.

you curse yourself for being ‘gifted’ something to be ogled at, to be marvelled upon.

if only it could be folded in on itself,

stored away without the promised discomfort of a drag queen’s tuck.

although, you think, walking on your blisters,

maybe that pain would be welcomed more than the panic of being sexually assaulted.

as long as you can label it that

because you had ample opportunity to just say ‘no’ and shove him off

and you did

eventually.

 

 

I talk about my whatever-you-call-it because otherwise it eats away // a man listens, until he doesn’t want to, I suppose // from the first moment I kissed him in that apartment, I said, nothing sexual, okay? // he could have said: then nothing intimate? // I could have avoided finding his company comfortable.

 

I start to find my genitals eyesores // things that make my existence a fragmented mirror of what I should be presenting to all these men I flirt with // what’s the most hideous thing the Snow Queen’s mirror could show you? // and I know the mirror technically belonged to those freaky evil goblins // is the hideous thing a gay kid with too many hormones and an unwillingness to just have sex // when I’m scuffing these boots, I’m thinking it’s a-okay if people leave me right alone // as they should.

 

I have sat on my hands to make them go numb // I shouldn’t I shouldn’t

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- Keeley Young

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