Sometimes I dream about
you lying dead and stiff.
Sometimes I think about
you confessing your guilt.
You are never content,
always longing, always groping.
You reject opinions and
isolate yourself, hurting
innocent in your tirade of
self-indulgence.
Sometimes I wonder at
your compassion, but you
blindly dice the moment –
with outbursts of intense stupidity,
harsh, empty masochisms.
You could better humanity,
else lay waste to lovers.
You spit poisonous barbs,
kind words – poorly guided.
Is gratifying others a sadistic
means to pleasure yourself?
Sometimes I wish you would
fall from a New York rooftop,
splash across the shuffling
hoards of strangers you scorn.
Sometimes I wish you would
find yourself at peace, or
shivering in an arctic tundra –
leaving the world in seclusion,
the fetal position you wore
at birth.
