Other boys

writing poetry about
other boys
(tucked safely between meticulously lined pages)
feels dirty.

I am tarnishing myself through
ink and paper
impurities spilling from cramping fingers to
make careful observations and
easy generalizations.

Writing poetry about other boys
spilled in cursive confessions
feels unclean

like the facts are fine until I
make them into pretty words,
counting syllables and
appreciating the effortless assonance

a
willing word-slut
I can’t keep from saying
too much.

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