53.

In the shadows you can see-
nothing-
but intentions, shady intentions and shadowed intentions, infections and erections, erections shady and erections shadowed, concealed-
By shadows, by darkness, by night falling, by tears not falling, by lust blurring, by danger blaring, by drugs blearing.

You prefer the dark, the absolute absence of light, you find it safe, kneeling in the absolute absence of light. You prefer it to the milkiness and murkiness of twilight, its thickness, its muted sadness.

Because in the shadows, you can see
-nothing-
but a flash reflecting off smeared glasses, off dirty glances, off stares and nods-
fat necks and fat bald heads, sweat glistening, eyes lurking.

“Be right back,” you say to this kid you know, sneering at the potentiality of the situation. And you shuffle your feet just a few inches behind Him, hunching and humming to yourself-
-a song,
a song to keep you warm-
hands shoved deep in deep pockets-
fleeting twinkle bouncing off the vinyl of your boots-
flash of filthy desire bouncing off His shoulder as he checks to see if you’re following, the Little Lost Lamb dressed in-
Wolf’s clothing-
thinking-
nothing but-
“Business as usual.”



And in the darker shadows and in the darkest hours, go down the stairs behind Him, His fat neck and his fat bald head. You grab and you grope at Him, the little lost lamb in wolf’s clothing, whispering obscenities in his ear wet by your tongue and sore by your teeth, squeezing balls through fabric, rubbing cock through fabric, teasing hard-

To bring upon you the loathing and desire you desire, His hate and his Lust, to make Him hate you and because of His hate to want you and because of His want to hate you even more, until-

Little lost lamb in wolf’s clothing is pressed against dark damp wall- fat hands clawing at sweaty vinyl and sweaty skin - ass bitten and fat fingers roughly jabbing into bruised muscles and nerves and membranes, dry, then hardly wet with spit - arm pushing behind neck and forehead scratched against damp-smelling wall - you bite the wall, you taste blood and brick -

penetrated, and you bite the wall, you taste brick and blood, you feel the hate and desire, your forehead raw, your ass fucked raw-

And a fat arm pushing down around your trachea
-can’t breathe-
how can you be mad and helpless at the same time, how can you be furious and hopeless, dying and not knowing-
which way you want the coin to turn:
-dead or alive-
-what’s the difference-
and then you’re breathing again, the oxygen such a rush a sudden blow to your lungs -a crash- that you drop on your knees-
-you think so-
Gasping, coughing
-you think so-
Something’s running down the back of your thigh and there’s the metallic rattle of a belt buckle and there’s a fuzzy figure out of which, extending towards you-
-a hand-
And a whisper, tenuous:
“…a-are you all right?”
And you rage, trying to shove that hand away from your face, you rage-
“Fuck off.”
and the whisper-
“…I’m sorry…”
“Fuck off!”
-flailing, dizzy, try to stand up, try to pull your clothes together and your pants back up, until you fall face down and feel the dirty sewage waters against your cheek, and the fuzzy figure fucks off indeed, a shadow and a ghost, shoe heels echoing on the steps and up, back up into the air-

while I’m gasping for air, breathing dirty water, scorching, down here
-in hell-
not feeling sorry for myself but mad and helpless, hopeless and furious-
dying but alive again-
alive but dying again.