It’s pathetic really, I know,
that I’d live off the scraps of you,
the hand-me-down, half cares and
“hullo’s” you’d throw while I scramble
for your neck in the dark, and ****
you for “just out of reach” and
mumbles under mountains of
day and dream, fervor-filled anthologies
built on your hands and the
consequent shadows cast.

I never got to taste you,
but I imagine it’s something
like 16 and gasoline. The question isn’t
what we really want. We want a
blood bath, the world in flames, but we
cry when the red doesn't come out
of the towels. It's just who we are.