Do I want you?

Do I want you?

 

Yes, of course I fucking want you.

I want you like I want a buttered lobster tail.

I want you like I want a 32-ounce Angus steak

and Chocolate Decadence.

 

I want you like I want a pack of Vanilla Sweet Dream cigarettes.

I want you like I want five shots of Cuervo Gold

three Rolling Rocks

six hits of dope

and 8 milligrams of dilaudid.

 

I want you with every needy, gnawing, sucking orifice of my damaged soul.

I want you to lay me open like a knife.

I want you wrapped around me like a rope.

I want you deep inside me like a bullet.

 

Do I want you? Do I Want You?

 

Yes.

 

But I have learned, repeatedly,

that the pain of wanting pales

against the hell of having that which I want.