sometimes i am afraid
that it's me. me who
lures them in, then pushes them away.
who drives them to the brink of insanity
& that it's me, giggling,
who makes them want to die.
and if that is the case -
( if it's me after all
who brought it upon myself,
forced first one & then the other
to tear me up and break me down,
with bruises and condoms and second-hand-smoke )
- if that is the case,
then maybe i will do the same to you -
maybe i'll destroy you, ask for it again,
fuck you up, fuck you up.
i'd like to think it isn't true:
that they were crazy, and i was just
the girl who drew the unlucky hand
and got the bruise to prove it.
oh, but sometimes i am afraid, afraid.