fellas, is it gay to queerbait? is it sleight of hand calling

              attention to unspoken fires in each breath?
where there is space for quiet ache, the yearn you keep

              to yourself until you find a trusted friend.
gay gaze in search of joy—ode to open shirt & hint

              of cum gutters—ballad of bitten lip
all mixed messages—lust thirsts, in need of quenching—

              to extinguish the names you call yourself  
when you spit at the mirror each morning for being

              so easily fooled by this cynical game—
head-in-hands realisation that we have played

              ourselves, over & over—our needs 
dumbed down & caught in every rainbow net. the bait

              isn’t queer—it’s late-stage capitalism.
eventually, the 11 o’clock number—that straight men

              are bad for your health—they complicate
attraction in exchange for your dollars & fandom.

              what can we do but to will the walls
to crumble & reveal a stage where there are no velvet

              curtains to hide behind at the end 
of each performance—when the trend or TikTok

              challenge has failed—when we have
seen through & beyond to where queer desire is canon

              —smoke signals guiding us home.