The battle fought inside your heart turns not
back the sun for any piece of ass. No,
why relinquish all your hot-mouth’d youth? Ought
instead to wage private war. But fellow
men can see your straining, forced cant, short step.
What do you do? Give a name, like illness?
Call defeat? This isn’t Manhattan prep
school drama—this is your fucking heart. Text
or call him, put it down somehow. Fellow,
if he gives a shit, will realize he ought
to flower your cheeks with affection, oh-
shaped darkness up and down your neck. Not
one dick in this world is worth your heart, but
you want the fiction wherein you he ruts.
Jonathan May grew up in Zimbabwe as the child of missionaries. He lives and teaches in Memphis, TN. His work has appeared in [PANK], Superstition Review, Plots With Guns, Shark Reef, and Rock & Sling.