Editing Academic Papers at 2AM


To stop myself from imagining myself
kissing you on your face, feeling your
eyelashes on my lips as I pass over them, 
I imagine myself murdering you with
an axe instead, hitting you on your head,
like in that scene from American Psycho,
on the bathroom floor, by the toilet. 

It is a hideous sight. I don't think it works. 
When I do, I move my hands to my mouth,
trying to remove stray eyelashes caught
between my lips: I put one on my finger
and make a wish, and it flies out the window
toward the sun. You are such a handsome boy. 
I don't want to know your favorite color. 
I've no interest in your talents or preferences. 

I'll be honest. That's not what I'm here for. 
That's not what anyone is here for.