The Beach

I tread over brimstone sand and into a blazing blue tent.
The well-fitting swim shirt remains baggy to my heart,
and my leg hair stabs gruesomely, mercilessly.
It's flashing through my mind: the fantasy of tearing
through vocal cords.

A dying name is called, and blood sprays from
veins; whether mine or theirs, I can't tell.
My eyes have been scorched by the sun to
avoid the bikini-clad women. Their curves
and edges were things my hulking mass
couldn't grasp.

Just another pair of guys:
the straight couple of my future boyfriend and me.
The fan-service-filled beach episode corrupted
into a boy's club of testosterone tear gas.
It's flooding my lungs, and I'm gagging
on smoking rage at my own putrid corpse.

"It will only be two hours,"
but with the melting minute hand,
each seconds takes forever.
The fiery sand is scorching
as my body grinds against my brain:
two incongruous gears forced
to work together.

The pyre burns below, and my mind runs.
It's a world where an ice skater of estrogen ambrosia
is flowing through me. I'm sitting next to Reiner.
I'm opening presents of dolls, not trains. I'm wearing
flashy dresses to middle-school prom.
I'm happily playing on the beach.