Tenderness

Yes, I was jealous when you threw the glass. I wanted the shattering against the wood-paneled floor for myself, to be the sudden diaspora of its pieces across the apartment — and last night when we fought, I wanted you to hit me so badly I begged. And the other day walking past Renewal-on-the-Bowery, when one of the men smoking unsteadily outside called me a faggot, I thought: Good. People get what they deserve. Then I wished I were more like Jesus — capable of loving all people and all things always, capable of nothing but love. I waste half my wishes this way, wishing to be virtuous. The rest, well, I don’t have to tell you, do I?