Broken lips, I smile inwardly,
watching you amongst the books.
Wanting you.

Internally, I ridicule my fascination for you,
I mock my lust.
I see the other men just like me.
I see them everywhere, all wanting you.
I hate relating to them.
I hate wanting you.

You posses a designer desire,
like ******* you is all the rage.

Everyday we all see your face
in every newsstand, on every front page,
but only because we all look.
Only because we all want.

And it's me crawling in the dirt like a worm,
it's me licking the doorknobs of every bar in town,
shoving fistfuls of knotted hair down my own throat
from every shower drain in every filthy run down
apartment complex covering this ******* city.

And it's me still wanting you,
sick with the want,
driven mad with the want,
dying wanting.

Poor from the late fees
for books I just can't
bring myself to return.