I've stared at you from across the room, upstairs from where we've both played; screamed my contrivances into the guarded chakras of kids still too young to get it, kids too close to admit it, kids too old to care, but felt only the words I'd written for you. I've watched you, more drunk than I let on, more desirous than you'd put out. Thoughts of mauling you; a dry penetration that excoriates the hide from the bone, the gushing blood to do the rest. The cigarette in your mouth to affront God; the guitar in your lap for show, a single chord played again and again. I heard your quiet humming; felt the soft brush of your timid melody; knew there was ardor hidden just beneath all that shyness; knew all that shyness to be an invention, feigned, but somehow still sincere, an idiosyncrasy you'd fashioned yourself out of parts you were told to jettison long ago. I've stared at you, concocted plans, wondered if you'd resist; considered giving it a shot. Once, I almost mouthed the words 'follow me.' But you never looked my way to give me the chance.
I would've taken you to another room, a dark corner, tucked away behind the refrigerator, the hanging cupboard. Pushing you against the wall, trying my hardest to push you through it, leaving you embedded there forever, like a fossil, like a trophy of my libido's. Like a butterfly alighted on my finger, now pinned to cork board behind glass, never to fly or make love to another flower again. I would enter you without your consent. In someone else's kitchen, with people only a few feet away, I would turn you around, pressing your chest to the wall, palms flat against it like a criminal, one hand full of your hair, the other my own spit. Arming myself I would penetrate forcefully, and begin drilling you with violent, malicious intent. You'd come in seconds, as much to my surprise as your own. You'd come with white horses, with horns blaring, nails digging into the cheeks of my ass, teeth chipping against the unrelenting wall. You'd come with a devouring conflagration, killing both of us instantly.
I've stared at you from across the room, counted the stripes in your shirt, the rivets in your cords, the hairs on your head; traced you with my memory's brush when you weren't looking, or pretending not to. I've made love to you so many times in my head. Other times I've seized you, raped and murdered you, bashed your face against a sharp corner of cement, skull-fucked your broken mouth, tore myself on your jagged teeth, bled to death beside you.
But most times we just lie together, so close we become blurry cyclopses with messy bangs and sour breath. This is how I'd like it to be, how I want it to be. However, I can't be kept waiting for much longer.