I want to punch you

On the lips
With my own;
To kick at you and hit
Only to scream and pull you close;
To lash out with my hand
And trace the planes of your face,
Every curve every line
And commit it all to memory.

I want to shout obscenities

At your infuriating stupidity
And your unrelenting brilliance
And grit my teeth at your warmth
And nod numbly at your truth
And to see your despair
And to mirror it with my own
Seeing with a kind of horror
That you and I are the same

I want

To not want
To not want to see the lines in your smile
To not feel the weight of your gaze
To not know






I need

To not need
To not need anything
To not need nothing


I suppose

That this is the curse
Of feeling;
Of feeling too much;
Of seeing the best and expecting the worst
Of wanting the good and getting the bad
It could be worse,
I suppose.
I could love you.

I suppose

That this is the curse
Of being me.