I.
Every nigga is a side nigga.
You believe you are something new
and rare. Neither of these is
the terrible thing. The shape-shifting thing:
a boy so crooked—at any point,
an empty box in need of a man for each
crooked side. Yellow confetti, the very heart.
I’m everybody’s soulmate because I am
hollow sounding. You realize there is
no such thing as a face after all, just hooks
for somebody’s coat and his boyfriend’s hat.
After sex, you unhook a towel and
sanctify salty skin. Tell me: are you still a savior
if your trophy does not stay to worship?
II.
If my trophy does not stay to worship,
and the sun sets upon my lonesome, how
cold does my body get? I, the bag of phalanges,
nothing in whom is untouched. A world of
organs christened by men, much like Adam
and his beasts. In this version of the story,
I was the beast. Man said: you are my [ ].
Man said: do you feel me in your [ ], boy?
This little [ ] is mine. Yeah. You want this?
By some miracle I grew a mind regardless,
yes yes I said I do, which was the wrong answer.
But can you blame me, you have witnessed my greed.
He pulled out of my pulsing, anointed my lips
with his warmth so I could not speak of love.
III.
With his warmth, you could speak of love.
Love swathed with love. It was so warm.
And then morning. The dream is all dust.
You cannot cherish across great distances.
No, that is wrong—heat cannot carry
across great distances. You could speak
of love and its legend wouldn't travel
more than a mile or two. Two loves—one
swathing the other—and still, the cold.
You blame the dust for its answer to
distance. You blame him for the dust,
and this is wrong, but you must speak. Do you
cherish the legend of heat? No. What you
cherish is the memory, swathed with morning.
Every nigga is a side nigga.
You believe you are something new
and rare. Neither of these is
the terrible thing. The shape-shifting thing:
a boy so crooked—at any point,
an empty box in need of a man for each
crooked side. Yellow confetti, the very heart.
I’m everybody’s soulmate because I am
hollow sounding. You realize there is
no such thing as a face after all, just hooks
for somebody’s coat and his boyfriend’s hat.
After sex, you unhook a towel and
sanctify salty skin. Tell me: are you still a savior
if your trophy does not stay to worship?
II.
If my trophy does not stay to worship,
and the sun sets upon my lonesome, how
cold does my body get? I, the bag of phalanges,
nothing in whom is untouched. A world of
organs christened by men, much like Adam
and his beasts. In this version of the story,
I was the beast. Man said: you are my [ ].
Man said: do you feel me in your [ ], boy?
This little [ ] is mine. Yeah. You want this?
By some miracle I grew a mind regardless,
yes yes I said I do, which was the wrong answer.
But can you blame me, you have witnessed my greed.
He pulled out of my pulsing, anointed my lips
with his warmth so I could not speak of love.
III.
With his warmth, you could speak of love.
Love swathed with love. It was so warm.
And then morning. The dream is all dust.
You cannot cherish across great distances.
No, that is wrong—heat cannot carry
across great distances. You could speak
of love and its legend wouldn't travel
more than a mile or two. Two loves—one
swathing the other—and still, the cold.
You blame the dust for its answer to
distance. You blame him for the dust,
and this is wrong, but you must speak. Do you
cherish the legend of heat? No. What you
cherish is the memory, swathed with morning.