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?