Marking territory
With flags, piss, and leashes.
Sanity ebbing and flowing with the tide:
In comes the water,
Out goes his shit.
I am rosy skin tight shorts short of attention drawn singly to my ass,
A burial ground of boyfriends past.
Etched in cum across my back
The lyrics of some old Dolly Parton tune
A many-colored coat of men I've worn in and worn out and yet to win.
I do not whine because I drink.
I do not sink because I float
On this inflated sense of self.
In this mirror of oyster shells,
I am unbroken.
Mine was not to be yolked.
Strong backed, ox-shouldered
I carry the weight.
Heavy with so much chatter
Of from whence I came
And where I'm going.
I have feasted at the urinals of Madrid and found light
In the dank bowels of subterranean sex parlors.
I have outwitted the straightest of cock and watched it bend to my will.
A little more to the left, my dear.
I have stolen underwear and gum and cigarettes all in the same breath.
Rifling through medicine cabinets has no longer become a pasttime but a fact-check.
I still have wet dreams of Neal Cassidy jerking me off in the front seat of a Buick,
Under a September moon with Marlene Dietrich on the radio.
Instead, I settle for RedTube military dramas with Drew Carey narrating in the background.
I lied to be laid.
Now, I've laid down my lies only to find I lay down with liars.
Lie down no more.
Marked I may be,
But matched: never.
