Hating myself and loving myself even more because of it.
A hardbodied co-ed who became my lover, who I refused to love,
And who, desiring me, gave up her secrets.
Because I could no longer feel, and because I couldn’t see,
Or hear, or know, or be anything.
And because I didn’t want to be one of those kids.
While thinking of other girls (another girl), and God,
And writing extended essays about Anna Karenina,
Hoping that would not be me.
Nursing narcissism, at times wanting to grab the screwdriver on my desk
And stab her in the neck—
And watch her bleed out as she catches her precious orgasm.
Then taking the bloody instrument,
I kill him with it too.
Because he hasn’t even noticed.
Red streaks across my naked body I jump from the fifth story window,
Land on the bike rack.
Crows will pick at my bones,
And nobody will continue to ride their bikes.
Except for the hipsters,
Who will see their blood stained bikes as an ironic tragedy.
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