You are terrified, my love, of losing me

in spite of the hatred you profess towards me,
even though I am the Bagdad of your anguish,
the fasting, the doubt, the empty library,
if I were to leave, if I took to the street
and marched towards poverty,
if tomorrow you woke up
and I was not there, how could you be happy,
love, now that the humor has ended,
yet you cling to my body
as a castaway clings to a wave,
what terrifies you is not loneliness
but hitting hitting hitting hitting
and that I am not there
drinking in ecstasy your rage your hatred
your tender fury.