Life, in the end, is a trick,
and she is the one who fools you.
Your life is more meaningful when you have a big dick
but this makes you ashamed, aghast, afraid,
because normally your meaning isn’t like that at all—
but when you take a reasonable position, you feel small;
one guy (you thought he was your friend) attacks you
and someone you can’t talk to at all
(is it her? I think it’s her) is your intimate companion
in a lifetime of doubt and revenge.
What the hell is this?
Of all the things you remember,
is it really that event, that kiss?
You hate her now. Is that how love controlled your love?
Was contradiction the thing which made you behave?
Will you be defined by what you don’t understand
all the way to the grave?