Listen, I know you hate it.
Can’t stand the friction
it causes
in our relationship.
And not the good kind, either.
My chainmail armor.
Nevermind that I wear it
to bed
(thought you’d be into that sort of thing).
Try as you may, you can’t get rid of it.
Not like all my other favorites
you’ve purged from our closet:
raggedy shirt; ripped jeans.
No.
This one’s super-glued on.

I know you’re embarrassed
to be seen in public
with me,
with it.
Kids point and laugh:
Go back to Medieval Times!
And no, there isn’t a pee-hole
in the front like they have
in pants.

I need it. My chain mail armor.
It’s because we know
how to hurt each other
better than any evil dragon,
or wizard in a tower,
that I always wear this.
I know
it’s not fair to you.
You don’t even get as much as a
helmet, let alone full plate.
But trust me.
Though my spikes
and shield
may sometimes hurt,
and sometimes cut,
it’s really doing its job
and protecting the most important,
part.
Your my heart.

Last October,
I know why you called me handsome,
and looked me up and down.
It’s because you dressed me up that day,
in tie and suit, shoes,
and buckle (the only metal on me).
Square frames, sharp edges, containing and storing in the supple,
the pudgy and the fat,
my formless made
into the image
of a man.

But come undressed,
I come undone,
spill out and ripple
before you,
terrifying you
because you’re not used to
seeing me this way:
unpackaged.
So that’s why,
though we both know
it’s not heroic,
or even remotely romantic,
I keep this metal
wrapped around me.
Hoping for the day,
you’ll come around
and this armor can finally come off.
We’ll ride off into the sunset,
prince and princess,
happily ever after.

---

Carsten Cheung is a writer and poet from Los Angeles. His work can be found in Strange Horizons, Pulp, Breathe, and others.