Hate I do not feel unless it is placed inside my body.
Entering like hot metal.
An injection of black adrenaline,
cold steel stinging my veins,
drugging my serotonin.
Eyes drunkenly beating
like a one-winged butterfly,
a toxic tear from the mind,
a swatted fly circling solid air
dense like power of a rolled up glare,
confused like the missing key of a typewriter.
Holding breath beneath water,
drowned grass in a lawnmower,
the hydraulic kick of a hair follicle,
a compressed cat's eye stressed within a marble.
The naked thread of an unraveling dress
anticipation of sex in front of a closed door,
or how a dam pours pressure from a nearly still mirror
and everything you thought you could see
reflects everything you can't believe
everything that shouldn't be a human being.
Regret is the enemy that makes it possible to feel,
or impossible to reveal
unless you turn, like loose leaf pages of steel.