October 27, 2003

11:00 p.m.

Back for More

He cuts himself

On the slit-edge of

Another's words

And yet he's coming back for more

Because it's like a drug, like

Some fucking sick addiction

If only I could

Cradle him

Hold him off and

Be the silent assassin—

The tiger slowly burning in the bush.

And suddenly I dream

Of finding us


Peaceful on a

Desert Island,

Charcoal remains of a

Cruel-mouthed city

And it will only be then

That I can smile in the wide-eyed joy

Of escape.

I'm sorry I failed—

So sorry I

Could not be the wise woman, the

One who played with Zen Gardens

And knew the secrets of the


Oh, God.

The Universe, it is


Would kill you if it could.

And you're still going back for more—

I want to scream at you


Going back for more.

Damn, you,

Let me wake you up!

I cry for you with the

Viscous tears of one who

Is saturated in another's grief, I

Cry with you because I cannot be

The tiger—the assassin.

Protection that you should have had.


Softly in a corner I

watch you

Standing in the hall with

Fingers held before you like

You'd reach for some unnamed void

And disappear.

Except I won't let you go and

You may curse me with a

Battered tongue—

Push me with your weary eyes,

I will stay here.

Even as your words

Cut me, make me


I am



Bleeding for you

Even if you do not listen

To the sluggish grip of

My grim determination.

And I will hold on

And try to pull you back

Even as you

Keep going back



A/N: Writing this was like cutting off a rotting limb. And I, quite frankly, don't have the detachment to write an explanation, so make of it what you will.

I usually ask for constructive criticism…but for this, please be kind. There was no other way it could have come out.

And sorry for the expletives. I'm usually not this vulgar.