I'm here and you're not
and I'm not coping well with that.
It's not that I need you,
your words, your affection,
your soft-spoken, sweet-lipped condolences.
I need someone to hurt,
something to fuck:
either will do right now,
possibly both.
I need something for the pain,
something for the weekend,
something for the hell of it,
and where the hell are you?
You told me
not long ago
that you wanted me angry again,
that you missed the old fire
that raged when you knew me first.
Well, you got what you wished for
because tonight I am napalm,
and I'm ready
to spit up
battery acid.
I need someone
to suck out the poison,
an ego to tear down,
a body to bruise.

It's getting late and you're still not here,
but sooner or later you'll have to come home,
and when you come back
I'll still be angry,
and when you come back
I'll be waiting.

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