For Him And You

You don’t hit her, but you might as well,

She wants you to.

Your petulant, tactless spirit

Demands that you batter her

With weapons heavier than hands

And she will wait for more

Because your hatred protects her.

She hides from love in you.

Neither of you are capable of anything

Except greed, hysteria, and mutual desperation.

She’s capable of nothing but dinner and pussy

While she counts the pennies in her head.

You are my befuddled violent proxy

And I give you permission

To straddle her like a tombstone

And humor her with the pale flare

Of your love.

If you haven’t hit her, you might as well.

There is no blow that she cannot take

And there is nothing she will not do

To preserve the safety she finds

In your dull-witted, hateful heart.

I wish someone would hit me

Or that murder could end this poem.

I would have them fling my black heart

Over the ramparts of your memory

To hungry dogs on the other side.

And, yes, you would burn
But not nearly as much as me.
I should die like no other
For this poem
And for the crime of ever wanting your love.