“Excuse You”

You’re sorry. A drink in one hand. The other strokes
a coward’s cock. You’re sorry. This apology laryngetic,
vacuous, a whisper of space. Every conversation with you
bends the same spoon as if it were knees
before you suck.

What you take from me,
what indulgence can be made in excuses
where you are a cursed set of chromosomes
confused as to why your nights disappear
into the wild of a man’s ass or how stares
from the right men force you to cave,
what of me will accept that of all this desire,
you could not choose, it is not yours.
Born this way: an acceptable mantra
of defeat, of disgust.

Yes, you’re sorry. You can’t help the moments
when you want to give in to the hardon.
Pushed by nature, you spread asscheeks and
accept tongue. Selected by Jesus, it is God
who informs you to let another man crawl
inside your mouth and cum.

You’re sorry because had it been up to you,
you would have mimicked your parents sexless estrangement
or replicated the carbon copied neighborhood
manufacturing children in place of conversation.
You’re sorry. Had you the choice,
you would have welcomed the invisibility
of a life like any other, but you make it clear.
You could not choose, this is not yours.

Yes, you’re sorry. Wear it like a cross, mythic and metaphorical
across your chest as if it were red-lettered scar,
a missing leg, a blind eye, a sloppy left brain.
You would think nature had dropped you on your head,
and the result was a bruised affection.

You’re sorry. I will not forgive you
for crediting nature with my desire to engage
my lips at the end of the night on a man
who was smart enough to send me flowers
and talk about Foucault. God did not
explain to me the methods of doublefisting
or deliver the hardon that comes from a tightened rope.
These belong to me as I have chosen them,
and I have made them mine. I am not sorry
for spooning semi-bruised after a night wrestling,
feeling fur against the small of my back,
or writing love notes in the margins
of my shopping lists to men I should never have loved.
But I am not sorry. You explain you are born this way
as if I would not have chosen each of them,
as if they were not mine.

But those kisses,
I chose it.
Each one,
it’s mine.
Each dick,
I chose it.
Sucked, held-
it’s mine.
Hours sleeping,
I chose it,
his arms-
they’re mine.
Online porn,
I chose it.
Chat rooms,
they’re mine.
gayday at disney
i chose it –
the bathroom sex,
it’s mine.
turning trade,
i chose it.
badpuppy
it’s mine.
fucking raw,
I chose it.
getting high,
it’s mine.
coming out,
I chose it.
fighting back,
it’s mine.
activism,
I chose it-
speaking out
it’s mine.
every fuck,
I chose it,
every time,
it’s mine,
in the streets,
I chose it,
in bed,
it’s mine.
in my mouth,
I chose it,
in my ass,
it’s mine,
in my heart,
I chose it,
in my mind,
it’s mine.
this life,
I chose it,
this life,
it’s mine.
this life,
I chose it,
this life,
it’s mine.

I chose it.
It’s mine.
I chose it.
It’s mine.