You’re the kind of fish who
inches toward the bait, then
away retreats at the shiver of a finger.
Nibbling at what you know won’t hurt you,
leaving the ocean unchanged as you slip through it,
you bind my eyes and restrict them to you.
You’re the kind of boy who,
when a friend sleeps over,
doesn’t turn off the lights or the television
because, you say, you’re too drunk to do either.
But in the way you hold your arms
I feel the fear you have of me.
Turn off the TV, and we’ll discuss how to destroy the world.
Turn off the lights, and I’ll invite you to my bed.
