and thoroughly. What is hard
is to bring yourself back
from that slow poison
after decades, when already
your limbs are twisting and crippling
and the spreading corrosion
eats your face from the inside.
I know about hate. Gave my stepmother
thirty years of it. If thoughts could kill....
There were reasons. There are always
reasons. Then I saw that it made me ill.
The poison was all through me,
ice in my veins. Gradually
I was becoming frozen.
It didn’t seem to be harming her.
I had to let it go. Remarkable
what you can manage
when it means choosing life.
I suppose I could have decided
to hate the alcohol instead,
but I wasn’t convinced she wasn’t
a sadist anyway, even before that.
And I like a nice wine.
They tell me she must have been
one of my greatest teachers.
On the soul level, they say,
we must have arranged all this
between us, her and me. If so
I did a very good job of forgetting.
All I know is, I stopped hating.
That’s it, though. I can’t like her.
30 Poems in 30 Days: 6, hating someone or something.
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