Aggro

If you send me one more request
to become your fan,
knock on my door one more time
with God in your fist,
exhort me one more time
to accept Jesus as my personal savior,
whip a finger at me again
to tell me I owe you my attention and my fate;

if you touch me again
as if you’d earned that intimacy,
ask me over and over
for a number, a key, a sign;
beg me one more time
to take you back,
coat me with unrepentant irritations
so I need a shower ten times a day;

if you look me in the eye again
and steal my glance,
raise my hope again
and steal my thunder,
pat my back again
and steal my spine,
stick your hand out again
and slice my grip —

watch me turn, then,
into water;
watch me sluice
down this channel between us
and wash you back;
hear me whisper like silk on steel
to try and melt the block in your head;
see me take your hands in mine
still covered with my own blood
and gently, as if everything depended on such a thing
being gentle, turn you back onto yourself
and make you feel how ashamed you are
of your fanatic insecurity
that makes you seek me out
to join you in your lonely cell.