I love you in a way that isn’t love,
A scientist gazing at butterflies
And imagining the most beautiful
Impaled, penetrated, stuck on a pin.
I want you like a butcher wants meat: fresh,
Red, pink, wet, the choicest cuts spread out and
Awaiting the cleaver, waiting to be
Transformed into art by his bloody hand.
I see you like a conquistador sees
Virgin land: there for the taking, green fields,
blue waters, shining riches beneath a
Thin veneer begging to be torn away.
I love you like a writer: empty words
And idle ugly thoughts and nothing more.