I am young here—barely grown for long, young for longer. I claw at the seeds of confidence while you walk with a blooming saunter. Chew your gum the way you do, I sit on my hands and whisper-ask, “Will you spit it in my mouth so it’s just us two?” Crumble the wrapper and hand it to me. My smile won’t quite reach as you watch my girlish eyes plea. Your kind—beauties of the flesh, not mind—say “I love you”. We, the poets, cry, “Hurt me, tear me apart, burn me, my sweet taboo— Allow me to see the rage in your eyes as you bite at my blood and masticate my heart— And when you’re finished and treat me like a youthful second-thought, it won’t tear me apart, But instead I can mutter, ‘Thank _Adonai_ he at least does not see me with loathing today.’” Perhaps with “I love you” us as poets should stay. Something is rotten in the state of Living—or perhaps Loving? It is not all beating hearts and giddy stomach flips and adolescenct blushing. What most I should despise only excites this wretched soul of mine. Burn me, burn me, burn me—leave only molten skin and a broken spine. Digest me or, if not, at least my bones. If you will not love me, my words, my sex, nor my warm, safe homes, That I have so provided for you, then hate me. Break me. Spit your gum in my mouth, never-to-be lover, forever despiser— _That_ I will settle for as my body slowly turns to fertilizer.