Tom
He has a crippled collar bone. By self
Report he’s had a crippled soul. Tom looks
Like blondness from the realm of manly elf
And sturdy wizards. But he’s had the hooks
Of beautiful young men that pierce his chest,
The one beneath that poorly healed, bulged bone,
To maim him—not just flesh, but what is best
In Tom. They’ve forced him to exist a lone
Young vampire broken with no drink of blood
Or seed to swallow, like a hermit lost
Among men. Still he’s built to be a stud.
His blondish hairs across his pecs are tossed
Around his untouched, unkissed nipples. They
Have not been crippled. They cry out. They neigh.