Butterfly stroke, a cursive stretch through the water, 

a black witch moth with a slithering wing.

If I didn’t think someone should beat me, 

I wouldn’t let them. I would choose speed then,

save my breath and close the gap between us.

I wanted it to look easy, I felt the white

boy’s eyes on me, surprised I floated

as well as I do. It was erotic

surpassing what’s expected of your body. Nothing

quite turns me on like being called a good boy.

My movements were the same as rock climbing,

the shade of my skin a rare sight on the rocks.

I don’t get scared anymore. I leap with arms long.

I’m reckless to prove I don’t break.

Each time I reach the wall, I look like

a hundred people dangling from a cliff

in a bat hang, suspended by my toes.

I’d rather fall like lead from the sky

than count my losses. I am the boulder.

I am the prize. All my life I was compared to a viper.