I only felt like you belonged to me

when that girl caressed you while
calling me “sir.” Regardless, you really

are quite lovely. I’m sorry that I cannot

appreciate you the way others do,
cannot make peace with the way

you bounce when I run, gathering

sweat in the cotton moat of my bra.
The sand in your hourglass runs

faster than the rest of this body,

though I wonder who will still manage
to touch you— your presence so large,

so dirty, so obvious that I keep you
bound against me. If I let the doctors

carve apart your softness, will lovers

lay closer to the heart? Who will love
this hollowed body, shape my manhood

into more than a kink?