Pretty Boy

I am a public library.
People check out parts of me.
Pretty boy checks out my love every Tuesday.
In his bedroom.
At 10 p.m.

Then returns it slightly more battered.

Aisles littered with torn pages,
Search for a spine that fits their lost alphabets.

I love pretty boy.
He may love me, too.
Until certain,
I stay mute.
Flesh on flesh.
The rest,
Expendable.
Fuck that emotional shit!

I nod.
Don’t mean it.

I betray myself.
Let him pivot my pages,
Bending my corners.

My emotions wear velvet and cashmere.
My love doesn’t wear a helmet,
It wears red lipstick.