metropolitan bathroom.
the rosemont bathroom.
queeraoke at midway cafe bathroom.
the bathroom of a random warehouse
I would never be able to identify on a map.
her bathroom, his bathroom, their bathroom.
some bedrooms. well, many bedrooms.
but I’m fond of the anonymity of barely being
able to remember someone’s name
as their moans echo off walls like
a church’s organ. let this be
the holiest man can make of me.

I don’t tell anyone how much sex I actually have.
oxytocin and dopamine taste like free heroin
and I am continually fixed off a prayer.

I fuck to avoid real intimacy.
it’s funny, really:
my body so far removed
from who I actually am
that offering it as communion
is a sexy,
sacrilegious act.

knelt into offering,
I turn body into book.
spread my pages wide
and forget about the spine.
nothing is holding me together
except the stroke of this brush.
paint me into a masterpiece
and then destroy the canvas.

what does it mean to be holy
to sacrifice the whole of me
when desire comes too easily