poem: when str8 boy asks u to take off yr binder

Your breasts, unexposed.
Exposed, his breastplate.
He can’t find your zippers,
peel back your upholstery.
“Where are you hiding
the things that keep your
insides in.” You mean my
ribcage? He means those
Things that give you shape,
“I told you to get naked
while I was downstairs.”
sorry, “is that still okay?”
You’re baring it to him.

Exposed, your stuffing.
Fabric torn all jagged,
ripping from overuse,
bursting at the edges too
big for your own casing,
you’re handing it to him.
i don’t usually, “it’s alright,”
takes your hands, i take my
armour into battle, kisses,
bites your lip, “It’s just me.”
strokes your back. It’s just me.
you’re unwrapping for him.

Breathe. he is asking
you for something. he
wants your patchwork
outsides, he don’t care
if the seams rip, don’t
care if the stuffing
gets all over. don’t care
if your pillows lose a few
feathers, if you cave
inward on yourself, if you
bleed all over the bed.

Give him the outsides
of you, so he can take
what he needs inside.
Breathe. You’re giving it
to him. “That’s better,
isn’t it?”, hands on your
tragedy, “this is alright,
yeah?” two fistfuls of
mistake, emptying you,
closing wounds with hot
tongue light fingers.
yeah, it’s fine. don’t stop.

Exposed, your breasts.
His breast, lust-heaving.

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