This is why we don’t need more gay poets.

All those fags ever write about is cum.

Cum in your sheets, cum on the streets.

Cum in my mouth, now cum in my mouth

again please. Come outside and watch the sunset.

Come inside and watch the rain. Cum inside

of someone but only if you’ve both been tested

and have clearly defined agreements around

consent and only if they have access to any

contraceptives you both need to feel

comfortable, and only if you’re into it.

Then cum your little heart out.

The days I remember to give thanks for my life,

I open my mouth and it catches in my throat.

The first thing I noticed about my tits

was that the right one was coming in bigger

than the left. The internet says this puts me

in the statistical minority. The President says

my gender does not exist. The IRS says

I will pay for my erasure. I fantasize about a day

when my survival becomes unremarkable,

about a day when getting my tits sucked

feels like getting my tits sucked, and not like an act

of resistance. I can’t wait for them to drop, to droop.

I want titties that transition from one stage of life

to the next. I want transition beyond transition.

I want to watch myself die without worrying  

I’ll be killed.

I am prone to expulsion. To gushing.

Prone to quick-talking and proclamation.

Almost everything you write is about

getting fucked in the ass, my lover says

and this has only grown more true.

Perhaps it's my proclivity to excess

but I’ve never been able to write

without spilling myself on the page.

I love a plot twist, the script inverted

as exalt. I produce more now I’m

on estrogen. I am told this defies

logic, that I have made my body less.

Yet, tonguing the cum from my lover’s chest,

I will call this nothing but becoming.