Preface: I HATE the word “frenemies.” It is a trite word that only people who read Cosmo and People Magazine would say. However, a certain person used it to describe our relationship, and unfortunately, I couldn’t argue with him; the word fits perfectly.

You want to kill me.
Don’t lie. You do.
You’d like to fuck me first,
but when it’s all said and done,
you want me dead at your hand.

You’d like to run your fingertips
along the sides of my breasts,
circle my areolas, and then
plunge your hand through my sternum and
rip out my heart.
Maybe even take a bite of it,
you sadistic fuck.

Don’t try to deny it.
We are way past pretenses.
You can’t even call this “love/hate.”
This is so much more.

If I let you get close enough to me
you would caress my neck with your lips
before strangling me with your bare hands,
looking into my eyes as I take my final breaths.

It goes both ways, buddy.

I don’t want to hear about your death
through the grapevine,
or even in the obituaries.
I want to cause it so that
I can make SURE you’re fucking dead.

I believe I already threatened to
stab you in the eye with a fork.

Though my friendship with you is PURELY artistic
(and YES, I will keep telling myself that)
I would use my “Kane Muthafuckin Hodder” autographed machete
to gently remove your head from your body
so that I could eat your brain
Hannibal Lechter-style with some farva beans.

So, yeah, you’re a pretty great guy.

I wouldn’t expect any less from you
than wanting to sodomize and slaughter me.

And I think you’d be pretty insulted
if I didn’t have a strong desire
to dismember and consume you.

I’m glad we had this talk.