Discomfort, and memories of events that I wish had never occurred.
Mistakes, or missteps or circumstances that were beyond my capacity to influence.
Allow me to start over,…
A naïve sensitive boy meets a girl far more sensitive but far less naïve.
She knows things about pain, rape, heartbreak, and the general things that the least lucky women come to know.
She’s a masochist by natural selection, in that she was selected by events beyond her capacity to influence.
He was a sadist in the same way, not dangerous, but perfectly willing to scratch her wherever she itched, if so desired.
All of this to say,…
They fell in love, heavily, in the worst kind of way too cliché to describe with a straight face.
The way in which more experienced lovers might scoff or turn away from, sickeningly.
Stupid love, in which both parties imagine that the other was tailor made for their needs.
Where every mental or emotional quirk was not only satisfied, but celebrated as what makes them special and unique.
They were smitten, and when they fucked it was passionate enough for them to cry about.
Melting into each others pores, sweating and savoring every precious moment of it.
The way she would say, “Please, put your cigarette out on my back baby, please!”
And the way he would hesitate, and say, “I can’t find a place you haven’t already burned yourself.”
And the way she’d say, “Do it anyway.”
All of this to say,…
It ended in the worst possible way, dramatically, traumatically, it ended with a rape.
The way in which a stray wolf confuses masochism with someone willing to be used in any kind of way.
While he, the boy, the naïve and sensitive boyfriend was beyond the capacity to influence it in any way.
Where he and she were both beyond the capacity to influence the event that destroyed their naïve and innocent cliché.
The wolf however, did pay. You understand, as a sadist himself the boy knew exactly how that wolf felt.
The sick and selfish ways in which he enjoyed the girl’s humiliation and pain.
Which is why his switchblade cut the wolf across his face, and may have killed him if he hadn’t been restrained.
Anyway, those two lovers are now estranged. She’s married and he’s still walking around somewhere looking dazed.
All of this to say,…
If you see a young man reading a poem about erotic bloodlust and heartbreak, he probably know what the fuck he’s talking about. Thanks.
Poems and Short Stories 