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by Hop Nguyen

We were separated at birth. Somehow I’m older now. He lives up to the word Ram alright. I devour his careless body that belonged to a careful mind. His long, flailing limbs with a strength much larger than me. I want to live up his legs. He’d hurt himself ramming himself up inside me, his twisted cock tying a knot up my stomach. Neither I nor him would want to let go. He’d drool on my shoulders and face. All this was done under my desperation and under my command. He’d shine under the look I give him. I’d give him a look like I was proud. And I am. He’d dislike the way I’d talk to him like a child and also loved it. I would have given him my fingers. I would let him bite them off like carrots.

It hurts to want you but I wouldn’t trade it for a sharpened knife dripping with blood of a deer. I let him call me a girl. And I would like it like a girl would. When we switch positions we do not talk about it. God forbid. I’d wish the growl in his throat was a person so I could eat it alive. He seems to me a believer. A perfect amount of fire and water. He might be the only one to shut down my ridiculous idealism. Learn how to dream without drowning in it. Thick-skinned on the outside though his words for me are gentle like a new calf. Still blood on his fur. I lap at his mouth when I feel a thirst. Salty—for he rises under the pull of the moon. I’d like to think I am stern with him but not at all. Cooing like a wet bird. He’d scoff at talking to him like a baby only to fall asleep in my arms. Rather die than to ever hurt you. Never could be a threat.

Hop Nguyen (he/she), trans. Quarter-time busboy, quarter-time superstar, part time poet.

Find Hop on Instagram @hoppingt0n.


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