Would you date yourself?
No love
longer than three weeks.
Wednesday was Saturday &
I’m all mixed up.
This girl asked me a too-personal question in the bathroom last night:
How big is your dick?
Scared I answered
truthfully.
Eating a pickle to come back to life
Deleting his number.
Deleting the pictures.
What day was that?
______
The bloodstains on my sheets
& the contents of my bathroom trashcan
tell the story so I don’t have to:
Plan B package, used pregnancy test, empty testosterone vial, used syringe,
Scooby Doo Band-Aid, empty tube of concealer, champagne cork.
_______
Would you ever be my boyfriend?
he asked the first night.
We met under purple and white and blue strobe light
at the last gay bar in town.
Fog of bad decision.
I was everyone’s friend.
And I thought nothing of him—
thought he was straight.
Until he whispered in my ear,
I think you’re so sexy. I want to fuck you.
_______
The cashier at CVS thinks I’m cis & straight.
Oh, you really don’t want kids right now, he says,
ringing up the Plan B & pregnancy test.
Head up, shoulders back, faking confident,
cough to deepen my voice, Nah, not yet.
He tells me there’s no rush, I’ve got plenty of time.
The woman behind me joins in, pats me on the arm,
Make sure when the time comes it’s with someone you really love.
Walk out into the sun, smile to myself. Success.
______
He keeps saying he is straight.
But how can that be?
If he likes me.
I like the woman in you,
he says one night,
which makes my skin crawl.
But for some reason
I stay and let him stroke my cheek.
For some reason
I shave my face
because he likes it better that way.
For some reason I let him
come over again.
For some reason I agree
not to tell anyone about
him—about us.
And I let him sleep in my bed again.
And I let him fuck me without
a condom.
Again.
______
He calls me superstar,
says I’m his prince.
Tells me to keep shining
when I finally break it off.
I am a superstar.
I do shine.
He can’t have me.
He calls me a week later,
at 4:53 am. Twice.
I don’t answer.
Calls again on Sunday, 9 pm.
I don’t answer.
Firelight on my face, coldness
of stormy beach at my back,
presence of friends. I got love,
plenty of it.
______
Now, I’m watching the time pass on my toenails.
He wanted to paint them, kept asking—
insisted.
Said he’d never done that before.
Not even for his daughter.
The sky is water.
The last of him
is chipping away
with the blue nail polish.
I am the prince of night, patron saint
of loveless millennium,
searching for someone like me.
Would you date yourself?
I’d be at my window with a boombox and flowers.
Max Stone is a poet from Reno, Nevada. He holds an MFA in poetry and a BA in English with a minor in Book Arts from the University of Nevada, Reno. He is the author of two chapbooks: The Bisexual Lighting Makes Everyone Beautiful (Ghost City Press, 2023) and Temporary Preparations (Bottlecap Press, 2023). He played soccer at Queens College in New York City and is trying to adjust to life as a NARP (Non-Athletic Regular Person). Basically all you need to know about Max is: baby blue heart emoji, David Rose, baby Snoopy, Phoebe Bridgers, and Heat Waves by Glass Animals.