he carded his fingers through my spine,
reaching under my shoulderblade,
making his nails at home under muscle and
skin- the barrier between true connection,
the athlete is a dedicated title.
there is no
reason, to allow,
something so close to this.
he drew the scars on my shoulder,
orange of angels stopping him,
to a tune neither recognized.
he was asked if he knew it was wrong but the
words never came out, and they wrapped around a tensed self,
a fox trap around torso, but
even badger teeth can't chew
home away.
YOU ARE READING
an idiots guide to life; how to survive the badlands of wyoming
Poetrythe slightly deranged ramblings of a teenage trans guy living in wyoming there's no overarching theme but there sure is a lot of dogs, horses, and god(s) . i do not know what i am talking about 97% of the time mostly posted chronologically in order...
