unmarked grave

the things we don't talk about
that are "none of your business"
the unmarked graves in the dark wind
of that bedroom or this
the short sax player in his shower
the trip to chicago with the only boy
the loaded stares at the bar
sitting there with you
everytime the door opened, you checked
the guy you said hurt to fuck
but your notebook said your body
craved him. because he was handsome?
because his cock was big?
sometimes you liked being hurt
but you don't know how to give
so you don't give you don't
know how to lose. How many of the
others did you suck off~hating to
take my prick in your mouth. sitting
naked on the motel bed with Neil
and getting hurt writing him letters
even if you were seeing me. then that mexican
s.o.b., true friend to me the bastard
fucking you in the bed at lennon's
while I was in Wichita, dreaming about
you constantly. I don't know if I
can handle it. It sure isn't even close.
All I can say is
my instincts not to trust you
were right.