I fucked damp washcloths, cleaned
the toilet with my sock—afraid
my sister might get pregnant
from a drop. I French-kissed
the window—glass good
on my tongue. My mother
hated lust—yelled about smudges,
pounded doors when I showered.
I’ve been reading about
chemical castration—pills
to kill my sex drive. (A website
suggested black licorice.)
(If you Google men who hate sex,
almost nothing comes up.)
I’m tired of my penis: messy
pulse, stupid lump, dumb need
that never leaves. I hate how men
taste dirty even when they’re clean.