The still lake outside of the window is moon-chilled.

Tonight, I numb the bad life.

I undress myself into small nothing. Into flesh.
Then make something of it.

This is the cleanest I will ever be.

Years ago, the bed still was soft-skinned and tireless.

On it, a boy sleeping with his palms open.

But now, I am laid, watching a glinting pool of saliva hunger
on my stomach. Like water for skin.

I rub it in.

I give them what they want. I rarely take what I want.
Boys like me live for the praise.

Meanwhile, I relinquish my authority on feeling.
Meanwhile, love is making its way to me. Through the black night, panting.

Or so I sometimes choose to believe.

And really, there is not enough respect for this trying.

For a boy I thought I could love, I brought him a book on how not to kill himself
and a bag of watermelon candy.

He smiled at me and I felt gutted all the same.

Tonight, I am the lake. I taste like a mouth full of death.

With silence like a lover at my neck, I star out this blanket of a night sky.