The love that dare not speak its name

is the fat boy’s love.
He cannot speak it but, grunting,
lards his verses with it.
He scratches his arms to
bleed the grease,
its oily sentiment.

At night, he grinds his love
into his teeth.
The words strain out,
are gelatinous,
wrung out like an apology
for the vessel in which it comes.
Because it yields soft to the touch
like a blister full
of his love’s yellow sickness that
once touched must be packed away
into crumpled balls of
plastery tissue.

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