​myth

I'm having dreams about essays I've read
Ten or more faggots are on the same bed
And they touch in a way that I'm told is a myth
Lips locked together and shoulder-blades kissed

And in the tangle there's still room to long
And tell all the touchers who else you still want
And maybe it's greed on a mythical scale
But none of them are starving, or dying, or frail

I get I'm a pain in the ass to maintain
An eclectic selection of bodies could make
A game of my wholeness or thе lack thereof
Maybe I need morе lovers to feel like I'm loved

I'm sick of the back burn
The flames going out
But we share a smoke on your living room couch
It's stale in the air but it's fresh on your breath
And I'll hit from your hands
Until nothing is left