I don’t want your empathy
I want your violence.
I want to feel how you hurt inside
as the questions tear you apart
and pound through your mind
in the lucid dreams of a perpetual insomniac.
I want to be the glass you smash against the wall.
I want to be the cigarette put out on the back of your hand.
I want to be the face you punch in a drunken brawl
as you run from the memory of my words.
I want to be afraid of your bloodied fingers
hovering to close to my neck as your rage washes over me
lips screaming insensibly against my ear.
I want to be stripped naked
and violated by your eyes, that eat me alive.
(Because you’d never touch me the way you want to
without my consent)
© Indie Adams 2012