Sometimes

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.