Forgive me. There were shouts across the screen
but I put my hand through the screen, so keen
was I to keep my secret: I would die
unless I was hooked up to a machine
which sucked tiny wads of paper and lye
from the bloodstream. Since the ability
to scream disrupted the sterility
of a stationwagon, our way seemed clear.
Fear directed us to virility.
She claimed the masculine is a veneer sheer
as chiffon. Standing in a parking lot,
I murdered a boy with this train of thought,
then cried till my sobs shriveled into soap
and we grew up to be what we were not.

Indigo Hawkins

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-piece/