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.

why o why
is it so hard to find
a woman who hates me
and wouldn't mind
if I we're drunk
and incoherent

why can't i find
someone to be miserable with

Out of the womb suicidal,
fashioned a noose before I was born
and came out hanging from the umbilical cord.

Three shots and I'm free.
Five cigarettes filled with regret.
Two miles home.
Three more hours of being awake,
then comes time for dreams.

With a steaming gasp of passion
I listen to his name fall from her lips.
The creaking behind the door,
god, the creaking.
The rhythmic slapping,
an applause to my final act.

The weight conforms to my grip,
the weight of life and death,
and I release the magazine
to study and admire the lead pills,
all in a neat little row.

Each one of them carries her sentence,
and his sentence,
ready to write history in blood,
punctuating each line
with a bullet hole.