James Gale

I lust, I hunger, I desire,
For another man’s touch.
Yet these thoughts are violent,
At least everyone treats them as such.

Puberty, itself, isn’t the crime;
It’s my orientation they judge,
As if it’s any less sinful
To desire a woman’s touch.

My lust always turns to shame,
A demon taunting me with blame,
Confusing me with strange desires,
Playing some twisted mind game.

Repeated over time,
The beliefs of others leave their mark,
And my unusual lust
Echoes hauntingly in the dark.

So, I try to hide it away,
Using aged morals to keep it at bay,
But the demon always gets in,
Passionate yearning turns to sin.

I’ve become a monster, I believe,
Hungering for what no man would conceive.