cracking you open,
right there on the street,
would give me the satisfaction
that i've never asked for.
you offered me your wrist for me
to slit
for weeks, for months, for years,
wishing i'd hurt you just so your tears
and self-hatred
could be "justified".
don't you know?
you didn't get the memo?
none of us have the justification
that we feel gives us permission
to destroy or be destroyed.
we're all wandering the alleys at night
hoping,
wishing,
that someone will stab us in the gut,
just because we wouldn't flinch
and wouldn't give up our wallet.