For my first hook up,
I went out dressed entirely in pastel pink and leaf green,
looking like a peach, but
smooth to the touch,
to the skin,
to the tongue.
Except for my converse. Which were grey.
But there were bruised with brown dirt by
the end of the night because we made out
in city park for 3 hours,
or 2 hours if you accept the gift of daylight savings.
And throughout the entire night, I had
to fight against the urge to peel off
my skin for you.
Had to remind myself
to not put me on a plate for you.
To not get my pulp stuck
between your teeth.
And it’s not your fault.
I just have a habit of cutting myself into bite-sized pieces,
of making myself something to be consumed.
A piece of meat that
can be cut with a butter knife.
There is an incomparable thrill to
drinking love on such nights, but
when we ran out of small talk
and told each-other we’re both in love
with other people,
it didn’t feel like an agreement.
You were high the entire time
and kept throwing away cigarettes
after just two puffs because the urge
to kiss me often beat the nicotine,
so you cannot blame me for
making my throat an ashtray.
I’m a guy and you’re a guy so this is to be expected.
But this is what we live for, isn’t it?
When people stared at us in the street,
you stared back.
And I started carrying empty glass
bottles within easy reach in my bag
That’s gotta mean something.
But know this:
I don’t even fucking like peaches.