at 16, most guys jack off in the woods / at 16, fucking me is almost like fucking a corpse
i jacked off to DMs from J talking about kink,
like listen—i thought being horny was being in love
because all i ever wanted was to be touched,
enough to fucking break my body in half,
like i was promised once, and when J said kissing
my cheek made his skin crawl back
into his mouth, his lips husked out numb—
a counterfeit smile (if you will). now, is this
a rite of passage or the reason why i want someone
to tell me in the dark how disgusting my holes look
bloated by them or a baster of cum, whichever
would serve them better that day? because my body
is better off as a thing at their mercy, what better way
to selfsever, isn’t it? when the lights crash with the plunge
of iris-lit sultry velvety skinpurple, fleshstocking color (if you will, again, please)
of the sky, and listen to the sound of rain colorized green. i hope you know
what i mean, because it seems alluring, right? and in this image, i’ll sacrifice
my body if it means i can cheat out, cast myself in another realm
where i’m just a boy out in the bright malachitegreen woods, an expanse
or a void—what do i get to choose?
tommy wyatt (he/they) is the author of NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL HORROR! (Gutslut Press, 2023), So, Who’s Courage? (Bullshit Lit, 2023), and several chapbooks. You can find him on tumblr, twitter, and instagram under @tommyblakepoet. He thanks his cats—Mimi, Cosmo, Peanut, and Skitty—for late night interventions.
