To the victor go the spoils of my body-

a scared thing of losses and victories hewn of human flesh

a lump of clay pulled from earth by some divine architect or mitosis of cells-

to the victor goes this pitiful thing.

To boys who tried and failed to love me, take my mouth and its hungry desperate kisses that you swore tasted of rust

And to girls too soft for me to touch without leaving my bruise-

i am sorry that i could not love you like you needed but

we had fun didn’t we?

It is if i have spoken in a language you cannot speak, but you ball your hands in my hair anyways and press your lips to mine-

i am the patroclus to an unknown achilles because here i loved like man loves the seafoam and trojan blood on the sand

and sometimes depending on the person over me-

i am the ganymede to your zeus and

here i wished i was an eagle.

the problem was always that i loved in a way that even god couldn’t

every person i fell into bed with a disciple, every condom wrapper and lipstick smudge a holy relic

every whispered dirty word and love note a prayer to victory

because i wanted you to take from my body like communion because i wanted you to look back with me and be condemned to salt-

because i wanted you whoever you were

all i have ever wished for is to be loved in return