Look: there are things
I thought you’d know by now,
things I assumed
that you’d learned as a child
or a young adult
or a college student
– before getting kicked out
for drug and whore abuse.

I thought you’d have read
or touched
or smelled at some time
the unspoken contract,
that you don’t ask a man
how old he is
or how many bitches he’s bedded
or what his religion is
or anything infinitesimally important.

I figured you knew enough
not to ask the deep questions
lest you drown
in the breadth of my response.

You do not know me
– not really.
You don’t understand
who I really am
– the soul I keep hidden
to protect the innocent
and keep me away
from prison’s gate.

You don’t see
how spastic and desperate
I can be,
how unnecessary
my efforts,
how exhausting
are all expressions of me.

You don’t get it.
You don’t understand.
You think you’ve scratched my surface
but those cuts are simply superficial.
You don’t know me
but you will.
You’ve got all the time in the world
to be sick of me, I’m sure.
Starting now.