Aftercare, Nikolai Graevestoun

a poem for the friend who made me feel like me Lying exhausted in my own pleasure and sweat I begin to cry. Lying exhausted in my room and lonely bed I'm scared of what the real thing will be like, if I ever get it one day. scared that someone I know and hold so close– someone who is so dear to me– would look upon my naked form; the purest and most vulnerable and beautiful state of being, and turn their nose away with disgust. disappointment. then I remind myself you love me for who I am. a friend I can run to and hug and kiss and laugh with, and I know if I said we'd never have sex– if you couldn't embrace me in one of the most intimate ways humanity has known, you'd still hold me close to you and show me I'm loved the same as always. I get so scared that you desire to know my body and nothing else; that after all is said and done, no care is given to me, and I will fade into the darkness my room is encased in. and then you laugh at my jokes. tell me I'm funny. tell me I'm handsome and beautiful and lovely like we never have, or will ever intertwine our bodies again. and I lay in my bed, cleaning up my pleasure. wiping my tears, because I remind myself you'd get me water anytime. not just after I've come.