Eleven, that’s all you’ll ever be.
Dark-haired kid holding your face down
in a pool, howling Don’t touch me, faggot.
Sounds like Touch me, faggot
in a world of burning water. 

Thirteen, eat a weak punch to the teeth, let him
lick away the hurt, tell him you’re sorry 
you didn’t make it more believable.
Mud gritting your mouth, pinned to the baseline
because he won’t let those other guys know
he likes to kiss you in the corner of an empty 
locker room. 

He’s holding you soft under fragrant leaves,
kissing down to skin. Fifteen. Like eleven,
but the pool is your neighbor’s mint field.
Pants around your ankles, shackled,
voice groaning under naked weight,
maybe it’s yours. Teeth catch tender places,
but don’t sink.

Seventeen. Rosy-faced in a tequila puddle,
holding yourself in now. He’s kissing
past skin, calloused fingers scratching,
unsheathing your spine to make room
for his own. And you don’t mind, because
you’ve always wanted to wear
somebody else’s bones.

Kit Evans is a 20-something queer poet and writer from Monmouth, Oregon. He is a recent graduate of Western Oregon University, and currently works as a bookkeeper. In his free time, Kit can be found taking care of his reptiles, embroidering, contemplating large bodies of water, and flipping over rocks to find cool bugs. His work has appeared or is upcoming in The Dewdrop, PURE Insights, and the Hiram Poetry Review.