Dislocation
the feminine touch i know demands, and takes,
and doesnt ask me if she can
if i want to if im ready.
the feminine desire i know is hollow,
and selfish, and suffocating,
a fist punching my teeth into my windpipe.
pain that i have to hold alone,
blood that i hope wont disturb her.
i am an object and i am hers,
my hands my knees my masculinity.
she makes me into what she enjoys,
molds me, places my
hands my knees my masculinity
exactly where she wants them.
is it a hand on her chest, or
an arm twisted behind my back?
it is a secret that we each know it is both,
and i keep quiet as my shoulder dislocates.
(good men swallow the pain,
because better men wouldnt be hurt.)