So Much of the Same

I want punch you in the face, make you cry. I want you to punch me back before rape-fucking me. Then I’ll cry too. A Stevie Wonder song will play right then over the smell of a hamster cage and later on, realizing there is blood on the floor and on our hands, we’ll laugh with washcloths in the bathroom—cool-water-washing each other and kissing the pain away so sweetly. I’ll get you a glass of water from downstairs. Just for your thirst because that's how much I love you.

I want to meet you in a strip bar wearing a black and white wrap. You’ll buy me expensive vodka, ask if you can watch me drink it—smell my perfume and buy me a lap dance. You won’t break the stare while she's grinding ass and tits into me.

I want to lie next to you in a bed covered in four-day-old sweat, male and female cum, and wine. Lying there I want to fight over the same breath with you. Eyes closed, lips so close to touching. Sun rising then setting. Getting lost. Drowning.

I want you to know when I want a grilled cheese or bacon or a pumpkin pie milkshake from Jack in the Box. To hold your hand and walk down foreign cobbled streets mocking the locals. We’ll drink dark beer and pay for it with their monopoly dollars. I’ll know your eyes so well I’ll be able to paint them in dreams.

I want you to write every word about me. Even fart, even puke. To make Christmas cards and newspaper articles with these words; dress yourself up in them and visit me. Knock on my window in the moonlight.

Deliver me.