by Amy Soricelli
Hate sits in the red chair/ it's angry ankles crossed; blood hate words forming circles tied tight - it could strangle the shell off a nut.
I have hated long and hard from this angry chair/ space - a black void - sucking its teeth;
glass people breaking their dagger eyes pressed hard against the foamy sheets -
its blind hate breezing in the shaded spots dead/dead sunlight crawling through the hate like rocks crawling through the dust.
I have hated strong misty stale air outside this window/ its curtains with fingertips poisoned from tobacco death.
Oily streets call my name in loud open mouths spitting fire trucks and angry/lonesome dogs.
Hate washes its hand in the muddy sink its spinning drain capturing the corn lettuce blood stains
Hate takes off its hat and hangs it on the greasy door knob sways its hips like its something hot.
The flesh of my skin peels and cracks like cheap vinyl; I make love to this hate in angry tangled bed sheets alone.
Hate kicks my ass across the street and i land full force into the deepest hole of your memory.
I will remind you of this hate - it will bury you alive.