Sometimes I wish I had not a 1 or 2,
but a 27 foot dick.
I could penetrate girls
w/o ever having to see
their magnified flaws
& only their 2-block-perfections.
When I was in 2nd grade
I asked my mom if I could
put make-up over the shit-brown freckle
who resides on the left hemisphere
of my nose, sleeping on the top bunk
of my nostril.
I thought I was in love—
I was 16 and didn’t care about
the freckle on casey’s left cheek
or the one waiting to start a constellation
on her starboard collarbone,
but it turns out I was just horny.
How much more metal or ink
must I inject into the projects
of my skin until my skeleton
becomes comfortable in these layers?
Will I finally be confident in my deteriorated body
in my coffin?
A therapist would probably say
I fixate on these miniscule nuances
to compensate for an average sized penis,
low self-esteem and/or mommy problems,
but that is why I no longer get close enough
to see the freckles.
This poem is about: