I'm having dreams about essays I've read

Ten or more faggots are on the same bed

And they touch in a way that I'm told is a myth

Lips locked together and shoulder-blades kissed

And in the tangle there's still room to long

And tell all the touchers who else you still want

And maybe it's greed on a mythical scale

But none of them are starving, or dying, or frail

I get I'm a pain in the ass to maintain

An eclectic selection of bodies could make

A game of my wholeness or thе lack thereof

Maybe I need morе lovers to feel like I'm loved

I'm sick of the back burn

The flames going out

But we share a smoke on your living room couch

It's stale in the air but it's fresh on your breath

And I'll hit from your hands

Until nothing is left