[poetry] My Lovers

[JetPlane]

I.
You slipped off my clothes
lazily, probing the flesh
of my shoulders gently as your
skeletal fingers
pushed the thin straps down,
my 15 year old breasts,
i was so young.
I didn't watch while you took
off your own clothes, but
I memorized the blue of your eyes
as you undid my pants,
pushing them down to my ankles,
flicking my socks off and
laying on top of me,
kissing me like you always had,
but this time, we were naked
and our bodies
were so warm.
There was that awkward silence
while you put on the condom,
you didn't know how
and neither did I, gripping
my wrist, gently, coaxing
me to push down the latex,
I retracted my hand quickly
as if the head of your penis
was going to snap at me.
You smiled at me, brushed
the hair from my eyes
and did it yourself.
You tried to give it to me
to lead it in; I pushed it back.
It hurt for a quick second,
you paused and it passed,
I waited for blood,
but there was none and when it was
over, your thin, scrawny body
leapt up, pasty white with your
strawberry blond hair, the color of
warm flesh flicked past you,
as you went to flush the condom down
the toilet.

II.
I cried the night you came
to pick me up, weeping
in the Burger King parking lot,
and later, when I dug my heels
into your back, smelling the
tangled sugar drink in my hair;
I cried because I loved you more
than I ever had and your kisses
were like brands, my dear, dear
boy. Your large hands could have
crushed me to pieces, your beautiful
doe eyes and that ridiculous
bull ring that became adorable,
even charming, the more I loved you.
But, you'd hold my hands behind my back
while you fucked me, separating my vagina
from the rest of me, I was a hole and
you grunted against my neck as your back
arched, pushed, grinded, forced
into me. You'd slap me when you came,
but you'd make me breakfast in the morning,
kissing me so sweet, ensnaring my mother
in your precious, undeniable likeability.
I was willingly submissive, a pawn to your
godalmighty penis, but when I slipped away,
stopped hiding my pain while you fucked me,
I forgot how to make love.

III.
You were thin, wiry
and uncircumcised. You had a way
to you that was simply foolish,
you were pretentious and inconsolably
pompous. You thought you were a master
in bed. I faked coming so many times
simply because I wanted you to stop
wriggling your small, insignificant,
ridiculous body against me. I could have
beaten you up, knocked you out cold
while I fucked you, but instead,
I separated your penis from the rest
of you, I fucked a shaft,
a vibrator that had a deflate capability
(discontinued after its first run),
a fucking toilet paper tube.
I hated you the more and more
I fucked you, but there
was something erotic in the dislike.
I hated myself for ruining the sacredness
of myself, paining my vagina with
a trespasser. I asked you once,
before you rammed me into a utility pole,
"Am I ruining my soul by doing this?"

IV.
Your kisses would melt my knees
and you loved the taste of me,
my mouth, my vagina, my thighs,
my breasts,
you would devour me for hours
and you never minded that sometimes
you didn't come yourself, and you taught
me to love the curve of my thighs,
my large areolas, your brown hair,
tickling my clavicle as you slept on top
of me. I loved you for such a short time,
a short block with such a resounding impact,
I would clutch you to me for the
rest of my life, if you'd only look at me
like you did that first night, as if the moon's
dew collected in my eyes and the word
was "overture".

V.
You were a curve,
a mirage,
you shook off the fog
and kissed me with your eyes,
your tiny fingers
propelled into tenderness,
cold mornings with your
folded warm body,
curled so tightly around me,
a comfort, a layer of protection,
beautiful in your simplicity to care
and feel far better than I.

VI.
We loved without loving,
we fucked without fucking,
all night, I memorized
the freckles on your skin,
as you bit your smiles into
my neck, soft, purple bruises,
scarves to wear the next day.
You were fucking a woman
with a flesh and blood penis.

VII.
Sloppy drunk sex,
it got better,
but "do you want me to finish you off?"
stuck in my head,
each time,
other times, your fingers
and mouth were all I wanted,
I craved your better half,
but I really had trouble with
forced celibacy and
such failure to communicate.

VIII.
You didn't satiate me,
the blood was still drumming
in my ears, the shower
water still beating on my back.
What am I looking for in this
sex without love? The beat
of your hips against mine,
thrusting without focus,
the quick end of another
drunk sperm. I sleep
in a separate bed,
hating you for being done
in only 2 gos. I look for it
everywhere now, craving
some satisfaction, wondering why
bloodless, mindless, loveless
sex is always my last desperate
fly before I wonder where
love has gone.