God I wanna take over your world. I want to hang my posters on your wall, and force my mantras onto your lips.

I want to write your politicians’ speeches; I want to be crouched around the corner from the cameras, my gun pointed at their children’s heads, making them all behave until the coast is clear.

I want to put down the dissenting voices against me. I want to lock the disagreeable types away in a cupboard somewhere. I want to put up a big barbed wire fence around your city limits, lined with long iron walls. 

I want to break your will against mine, like rocks striking for sparks. 
I want to break your bones against mine, so we can bleed together like a proper scene of depravity and desperation.

I’m desperate to control you, desperate to own you.  

God, there’s so many places I’m not today. Not with her, not with myself, not really up close, more like far away, or deep underground, under water, under pressure…

I’m looking for a lover with the same sized appetite as mine. I’m looking for a memory that won’t forget me when I’m gone. I’m looking for an excuse, a release, a bit of flurry for my focus. 

You: won’t be my lover, but you’ll make an adequate friend. 

I: can’t give you what you want, but I can be something you might enjoy anyway.

I feel evil and twisted, like black liquorish. I feel like crooked like a same-shaped man living in a shame-shaped house. I feel like my feelings have been twisted around and turned on themselves, tied in such knots so unable to molest any innocents except myself.

She reaches out for me, but he’s still in her hands. I stay just out range, so I can enjoy the conversation, without getting of him on me; without wanting to get any of her other lovers on my skin.

She reaches out for me with fire. I reach back with an arsonist’s erection. 
She reaches out for me or fire.
The fire reaches back and consumes her greedily.
I sit across the room and watch, and find things of my own to feast upon. 

We’re flirting, we’re sending these letters, these notes, these ideas. You’re glancing up from your keyboard to give me that look. 

You look like you know what you want me to say, and you look like you know how to make me say it. You look like you’re ready to reach through the screen, to give me a little squeeze, to coax me into behaving a little better for you.

I might. I might not. 
Might naught.
Might knot.

A mighty knot has transformed itself into my stomach; a writhing mass of half-dead eels with torn tails tied to terrible teeth.  My midsection is a portrait of denial and repression and stuff I don’t want to think about. I try to dilute myself with tea and narcotics, dulling my violence with sweeter sensations about the edges. Pack the pointy bits in soft cushy foam so they don’t take out any eyes.

You look like you’re ready to strip naked and show me some body-art. You look like you’re ready to do whatever I tell you to, if it just gets you a inch closer to tucking that big black blade up under my chin. 

You look like you’d be the love of my life,
As long as you got to end it, when you were done.