Foreign Things

Foreign things tend to feel like home for broken boys.
They seek to find niches that correspond with their temperament
as so many have been at cross-purposes. 
Pray for the broken boys,
those ill-fated
stolen boys.
Those graveyard body boys;
The ones who leave the house at dark hours—
creeping the streets in search of comfort.
The ones who are cavalier about their innocence.
If only these small-town shadows knew what will transpire tonight,
How the boys they’ve watched grow up turn to strangers for sustenance. 

There’s a man in that room and I’m not sure what he wants.
He’s been writing me love letters behind a blank profile picture.
(Hey. What’s up? Any pics?)
This must be the place where those hungry men come to eat,
Those who’ve starved for months in temples too holy for this feast.

I’ve been warned about these encounters—
these fruitless endeavors
in motel rooms 
with tangerine street lights spilling in.
Ashtrays with intricate patterns
sitting on nightstands
collecting dust. 
Mini bars with two glass cups
bottles of scotch
and TV static.

They say boys who stray far from home get bad omens—
curses that follow them for generations.
They say I’m too young for this kind of business—
meetings with strangers in harsh conditions.

It’s euphoric for a moment, 
I must admit.
Tangible,
risqué,
erotic.

This one seems different,
Quiet—
quite reserved.
Only speaks when spoken to.
Nervous—
but I know he’s not. 
They never are.

To him, 
I say:
Break my body.
But this time like bread
Dip in sin and soften with jaws.
I’ll pick it like crumbs from the floor
with shattered hands and what is left of me. 

They say boys who stray far from home lose their bodies.
Faces start to hollow out,
hair falls out,
cheekbones peak out.
They break.
Forever broken. 
Broken body boys. 

Thread the holes through that skin, 
though the fabric is long worn. 
Apply balm to those lips—
though no salve can mend the crack that burrows far beneath.

Why do I sleep next to strangers?
I know better than to let them into my bed.
Sanctuaries held captive by bodies bent out of shape.
Angels looking down at this unorthodox landscape.
Pills on nightstands whispering:
Put the boy to sleep. 
Save him from himself.
‘Tis almost the witching hour.
Full moons and doses of dopamine 
invite mysterious men.

I awaken at dawn.
The eastern sun brings with it a sobering shine.
The stranger is gone—
nowhere to be found. 
Repentance draws near.
Down on bruised knees to my God:
Father-- 
forgive me, 
for I have sinned. 
My temple is no longer clean,
stained by the stranger’s skin.
Make me new again,
bring me home.
I promise--
not another foreign thing.