Nothing Suitable

Is death really something worthy
     of hoping for?
Does it mean I love you when I hold my penis
     while I lick your tile floor?
Will you ever insert my art between your legs
     and beg me to give you more?
With one hand in my pants
     clutching at eternity,
I think about you and your vicious smile,
Knowing better than most that this
     is the way things are done.
With nothing suitable left to kill,
     we should finally kill ourselves.