it’s not as if
your innards
withheld the
s e c r e t s
on why you are
the way you are


so there’d be
no point in me
portraying
jack the ripper
in hopes of
figuring you out


i couldn’t stand
it anymore

i tear
your flesh,
out of
severe
curiosity


i couldn’t stand
another second
not knowing
who you really were


the mystery encasing
your identity was
begging me to
identify you,
decipher you,
inspect every plain
and every crevice
of you.


i hang every body part,
every ***** of yours,
up in shambles
anticipating
my careful scrutiny
as something
within me
wakes


the realization
dawns on me
that i’ve lost you
in the process
of trying to
know you better


could the blood
on my hands
[from your veins]
just trickle rivulets
into my wine glass
like liquid knowledge
and fill the void
that’s been you
all this time


i hate your guts
for never opening
up to me.
no pun intended.