His eyes wrench me open, asking everything I never will. Answering their own questions before a word can leak like honey out of the grooves between my teeth. The shining example of masculinity I was born to is nothing more than a plastic army toy masquerading as the real thing. But his camouflage has been eaten away by the Coke stains that still spill down his cheeks from years ago. My cherry lips lose their color slowly each time we speak, all the blood from them rushing down into my gut and turning with the bile that lives there. I am nothing of this man, even if his DNA tattoos itself into me, my middle name his bastard child.
On the other hand, we have the boy I barely know. The boy I've spent a mere hour with and yet hear in all of the weeping notes of my favorite ballads. His glossy hair and curious voice. Whatever void I am trying to fill, it's ripping further open by the second. When I am nothing more than raw flesh, let's see whose blood will rush back into my lips.