When you tickle my torso with the scalpel,
it feels like the Misfits’ Last Caress:
you pull away skin, reveal the promise
to tear my nerves and twine them
around your fingers, taut as friendship
bracelets I used to make in middle school.
You were taught how to be a man,
how to hum like Patrick Bateman
but with better music. I swallow,
pretend I understand this: sexual revolution
is a 1980s slasher movie poster, and I’m stuck
out of time, waiting for the next Scream sequel,
out of time, holding your left hand, out
side by side I see you scrape away at yourself.
You are a body without organs,
without anything but dead air inside:
it’s time for you to finally feel something,
my hands now raised, frozen over my face.

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