So maybe I do like boys with tattoo’s,
ones that cry in the dark
with their head on my chest
and our breathing in sync,
dynamically sorrowful.
Isn’t it divine, the way
some people can open at the join
and show you the little lakes of pain.
Pooling reflective
of your own. And maybe one day
they will be some other man,
a new thing you’ve never seen before
but their history is scrawled drunkenly
across your scars.
Sharing the pain of all the beautiful,
beaten boys. Pushing them past
breaking point, watching them rebuild
their empires with the
liquid gold emotion you sacrificed
to make it better.


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