Lust is a form of belief--
Build me a city on the moon
to escape to and eat through
the apple core of the poem-- 

they lied when they said
if you don't love yourself
then you can't love anyone else
because if that were
true then i would have spent
the last twenty years of my
life living only on apple oatmeal 
a sexless type of lust--
and vanilla pudding 
cups congregating in the corner
of a dorm room-- their foil
lids i take as silver medals
or approximations for a
one-way ticket to the moon--  
i'm the creature
with the smallest spoon and the 
only form of self-love
i've ever practiced effectively 
is a gulp of instant oatmeal
past midnight-- i open
peanut butter jars just
to smell with glimpse
and lamp light-- take the 
wrist flick of a butter knife--
lust is a potato roll full
of cream cheese or banana medallions
at milk bottom of a bowl of Cheerios--
yes i eat the stems of apples--
through the core the same way i devour
across a poem-- 
wriggle rhyme between my 
crooked cobblestone skyline teeth--
Eve picked
this fruit for a reason 
so i ask you if you're ready
to build a city for me
on the moon-- 
love a body made of apple seeds--
i eat with tiny spoons so i can
save the measuring cups for 
blueberry muffins-- 
our head were lustful of streusel 
i'll let you in on a secret--
the moon is only really a cheesecake 
that i baked when everyone
forgot to check the oven timer--
one slice at a time--
this is empty plate--
i saved the tiny spoon for myself--
i taste so much like unsweetened 
oatmeal i forget that i'm worthy
of a city baked on the moon--
you buy me vanilla pudding cups--
hold me like a ladle--
we can forge the buildings from cranberry
soda cans and glass bottles of
diet root beer that remind my of
my father-- his brown 
bottle fingers he uses to 
drive a card board box of juju bees--
have i only ever baked out of lust
for a version of you 
who wears black canvas shoes--
no i know you like
the bare plate of the moon and
i have never loved something
for the lust of a cupcake skirt--
i'm a queer-blooded oatmeal 
bowl looking for a spoon
looking for a sliced banana medallion--
looking for the sound of my father's
hands--
no 
they lied to me when they told
me i needed to love myself 
because-- i have lived these last
years only on love spooned 
into the skirts of muffins--
into the pie-crust of a moon--
are you building a city yet?
i don't believe in Lust anymore
and if i do it might taste 
something like cheesecake of
peanut butter lids--
i don't have the illusion 
anymore that love was meant to
make me bold enough to hold
a fork in between my teeth
but i do live on the belief
that there's enough left
for a city on the moon--
we weren't meant orbit--
we were meant for graham crackers--
for root beer mouths--
for the apple seeds growing
an orchard out of my chest--
don't let them tell you there
is a condition for loving
you-- and if they tell you
it's Lust eat in front of the
mirror--
laugh in apple cores--
lay bricks of cream cheese--
split potato rolls like
His body
and the moon--