be a bit afraid of me

you should always be slightly afraid of me.


"you should always be slightly afraid of me," i said,

you slid your heels across the hallway,
a squeak of floor polish

and said, "i don't get scared of things i've got
      or things i've had."


oh shut up. you never had me.

"i swear to god -"

"what?"

(you are always so alert.)

"i said, i swear to god -"

"god's for children."

"for christ's fucking sake, you never let me -"

"what?"

"- finish!"


typical sensation of hatred choking my throat,
      everything blurs when you're near me.
      i either want to fuck you,
      or strangle you.

i know you talk shit, and i know you're an idiot.
i know you steal jokes, boyfriends, opinions;

but somehow, i forget,
somehow you catch me, and BANG -
      "oh david, come here," - and i fall down again:


are we still in the hallway?
has a hundred years gone by?

the floor feels too soft. my legs feel too heavy and i can't smell polish. i smell vinegar and that incense (you claim came) from tibet. i can smell you. i can smell you on my skin. did i fall back into your bedroom again? at first i hear you: your deep indifferent breaths of sleep. tilting my head i see your naked torso facing away from me. your skin is almost orange in the dim glow. somehow you are still beautiful.

i try to look up to the flickering light, but the ceiling is too far away.