The vase that holds my hate is overflowing
dribbling bile onto an off-white table cloth.
Hatred for a world that all too often denies my deepest identity
my truest truth
despite all I’ve done
all I do.

These scars
these veins run deep
dampening the clay
weakening the foundation
cracking the surface.
.                   .                   .                   .                   .                   .                   .                   .

Hate is a long kitchen knife tearing through flesh like meat
ze makes no distinction.
But it’s not hate that gets them all
my friends
not most of them.

Hate is not, in and of itself, the enemy.
Hate is the last refuge of the despised
a cold harbor
numbing the throbbing unbearability
closing off the pours
staunching the flow
so that tomorrow morning we can go to work and smile at you while we pour your coffee.

Nor is it fear
fear is not, in and of itself, the enemy
fear is the preservation instinct that carries us through
allows us to navigate in enemy territory.

It’s your comfort that inures you to the pain of other, less fortunate monsters.
It is your certainty, gorged on spoon fed fois gras that overrides our anemic subjectivity
loose fitting humanity
creatures stitched together with primitive skin
inferior thread leaving scars.
Even the best work money can buy will never be enough for you
smiling erasure
while we lie
beaten
spilling
pouring
bleeding
dribbling tears and snot and bile
onto an off white blanket of last week’s city snow.