What I would say if I were you, I’ve no idea, although
I must confess I am lasciviously curious to have a go
at being you, that is, to look and sound and move
like you while inside being me, thereby to prove
no one will care who’s at the helm of your identity.
In fact the thrill that I might overwhelm your entity
with crude shenanigans that lewdly put you on display
as if you’d dumped your dumbass self upon a shelf to play
an even ruder role than usual is a beguiling possibility –
I think I’ll do it! But – whoa. (Oh!) No, no. The imbecility
of what is likely to ensue as I eschew my body to become
the thing inside whatever you have done to your glum
flesh and then to watch you take the likely copy-cat revenge
you’d carry out ineptly: climbing into my skin to avenge
the wretched mess to which I’d have subjected
you by torturing my soma until thoroughly infected
with your bestially unholy pestilence, so that it sweats
and stinks, offends like the aroma I recall abets
the awful rot and wreck of you that I’ll be caged in.
Now I wonder why in hell I’d want to have engaged in
anything as sordid and unbalanced a catastrophe
as making me climb into you, or you climb into me.
So forget this letter, burn it. Don’t admit you’ve seen it.
Pretend I didn’t send it. Pretend I didn’t mean it.
(Threats of a Violent Act are what sponsor
the virulent flirting of monster and monster.
But who said the point was to soothe?
The course of true love never did run smooth.)