culpability and conviction (this is why i still think of you)

i want to say, i blame you.
i want to tell you it’s your fault
that i have become the shape of my need and
it is organic, unsteady and that i must always keep vigilant
lest the walls should fall from the force;
that because of you my body is a field alive with dead skin
and smoldering fires unsure of purpose, swift and silent,
hoping as much to be extinguished as to be stoked–

i want to face you and meet your little-boy blazing gaze
and in a quiet and controlled tone inform you that you are responsible
for the certainty in my heart that i can neither need less
nor compromise more, for the sudden religion i have found
between a boy’s thighs (i am contemplating a man’s, but still fearful)
for unconscious ponderings in steamed mirrors
and a body which though starved remains abundant of flesh,
for its hungers know no satiation at the table and no quelling in the glass.

i want to grip your shoulders and shake you
i want to bring my face so close that our auras tangle
and spit in your face unintentionally as i scream that you, yes, you
are to blame for so much need

and such terror of its discovery–
but in truth, i will whisper, slowly dropping my hands
and backing away,
i have no evidence, for you never left any prints
(and that is exactly the problem).

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