I ran into my lover’s mouth &
found a river staring back at me.
“the only way I see myself going
is by drowning.”
I held this boy’s hand in mine &
opened myself up to absorb all of the pain
he has to give away.
“why do we always have to
romanticize the idea of death
when there is so much to live for?” I asked
“why not? Existence is pain”
On Christmas’ eve, he walked
into the room wearing his glasses & nothing else,
a strain of emptiness drew from his temple and ran into his chest.
“I am tired, Ameen”
I already have the answers to
all the questions I was supposed to ask
so instead, I held his face in my hands
& his body reeked of love,
& of death, &
of dead flowers that never bloomed.
“do not die on me, D.
Live for me.
We laid in snow, cold.
Our bodies battered badly by the
sheer hunger seeping
out of them.
You are a gourmand, insatiable.
I say “give me all of your warmth”
& you shed off your skin to
keep me afloat. You laid in snow,
I climb on top of you & thrust
to the best of my abilities. You
wanted to run your cold hand
down to your appendage but I
slapped it off before it could complete
You belong to me & I
belong to the streets. The universe
never gives back anything that it swallows.
We laid in snow, cold. Your hands –
my hands. Your warmth – my warmth.
I rose to climb the gates of heaven.
You never got out beneath me.
Animashaun Ameen is a not-entirely-straight Nigerian poet and essayist. His writings are mostly centered on grief, sexuality, and identity. His works have appeared/forthcoming in The Drinking Gourd, Roadrunner Review, Stone of Madness Press, Perhappened Magazine, EroGospel, and elsewhere. He lives and writes from Lagos, Nigeria. An oddball. A butterfly. He tweets @AmeenAnimashaun