A Poem For My Private Parts

[heslopian]

I have exploded again.
Leaking fluids, I stifle a scream,
as my skull hits the headboard
and my fingers become lost
in a forest of pubic hair,
beset by this useless teenage seed
I was warned against using on comely lasses.

I am running, I am running,
towards a point of light
not far from here, somewhere in the distance,
a flashlight in a dark classroom,
after school has finished. I never reach it.
The book always ends with me still running,
an ellipses at the end of the page,
and then the Author's Note,
beneath a picture of a boy sighing,
wiping himself down with his sleeve,
and dreaming of violation, control.
Romance through dominance.

Now falling backwards,
blue walls like receptionists
who take your new prescription,
stamp it, and then send you on your way.
The pale morning sunshine slices
my face like a rusted car bonnet.
I've bled the dream out through my genitals.
And now the stale smell of yesterday's dinner,
dumped in a sack on my bed's upper bunk
(my father's a terrible cook) returns,
choking me with its grey realism,
its lack of come and purple thoughts.