Eating your lover's eyeballs

a poem on craving tenderness

I know a lot about stars, pigs, and depressed writers who live to drink and drink to write or write to live and drink to live or live to write and write to drink. But I don’t know why and how I became an object of misery or became an object that’s attracted to misery. 

So, when my lover cries about not knowing how to pronounce words like “ramen” or “abandonment” or throws a fit when he fails to understand art or the act of being gentle and understanding, I go to the kitchen and stare at the pot of boiling water. I feel like kissing it. I don’t know who the real victim is. Me or my artless beloved.

One looks at the other like a Prophet you would sacrifice your life for and the other looks at the one like a sinner unworthy of being a believer. I’ve been looking at my beloved and everyone else on this Earth. If I could trade my life with anyone, it would be with the man sleeping on the road divider. 

This is the first poem I attempted to write after nine months. This baby was born when I found out my therapist is moving to another country. I am mostly fine but I can’t stop myself from being a terrible person. I like the idea of starvation and writing poetry till my brain goes numb. I am so full of superficial nonsense that a literature heathen would laugh at. 

I think of all the ways the world could end. Monday night imagination is my favorite. The sun exploding into bits and setting the mankind on fire. Tuesday nights, I imagine Gog and Magog eating us all alive. Wednesday nights, we all turn into zombies. Thursday nights, humankind goes berserk and eats one another. Raw. Imagine nibbling at your lover’s raw eyeballs. 

Friday nights, I watch a new movie and momentarily forget about plotting my own doomsday. Saturday nights, a civil war between the heathens and the believers. A massive bloodbath. Blood flows like how wine flows in paradise. On Sunday nights, fear settles in my bones. What if God decides to punish us and we never die?