Boys Poem by Cat Singh

1.
This one holds me like we are two halves
of the same thing. He touches me,
and I think I can feel it
both on my skin
and in the nerves of his hand.
When he cuts me open like a surgeon
and inspects my bloodied guts,
he is only trying to get closer to me,
to merge our halves into a whole.
One slip of the knife though,
and I am irretrievably lost. I become him,
and he does not become me.

2.
This one touches me like I am a discovery.
He is an explorer on new terrain.
He marches across my body,
hiking stick in hand,
finding his footing confidently
but still having to search nonetheless.
He grips my middle between his two hands
and gauges its girth.
He plants a flag in my naval
then walks away as it waves.
I am like the moon: marked, claimed,
belonging to no one regardless.

3.
This one says he adores me,
says he reveres me, says he cherishes me
like a gift into his already lavish world.
He brushes against my skin
and says I am so soft,
so soft. How do I do it?
He calls me gorgeous,
and then he holds me like I am such
an ordinary thing.
I am like a pencil, a tissue, a bowl.
I am something you wouldn't look twice at
but maybe still "gorgeous"
and "so
so
soft."

He picks me up and puts me down,
and I do not think much of it.
I do not think much
at all.