You are not the Joe who frequents strip clubs
or the George naked beneath a trench coat
You don't offer candy to first graders on sidewalks
or dabble in online chats with curious preteens
You aren't an uncle in pursuit of his young kin
or the president who grabs women by their pussies
You are your own kind.
You play Jesus on stage
and draw in the fragile seeking affirmation.
You earn parental trust
then pour wine down virgin throats.
You whisper words you're gonna be a star
on staircases that lead to bedrooms.
You puzzle piece a cult together
and publicly appear perfect.
I'm forty now, not fourteen.
I don't know where you are
but I know who are you.
I wonder how many stars have heard your whispers.
I wonder how many carry the weight of silence.