I love the way you hate me. . .
when your smile reveals fangs, and your laughter lacks humane lustre
I love the way you hate me
when you tell me South but intend North.
when you tell me it is well in the well when you are actually well outside the well with a long rope that fails to reach where I crashed.
I love the way you hate me
when you engage through avoidance and hearted disdain.
See Enki, I am still healing from the hate of Hetty; from those who were trained to hate, raised to spite and nurtured to despise.
I am still floundering in this foundry, living with mean men, walking while others are flying.
I love the way you hate me; how caring you are through deceit, feigning God but acting Godot, making me wait without never making my dry throat wet.
I love the way you hate me; there is artistry to your indignation. When the call drops, you laugh like Enlil would at the gullible humans who think him benign and Enki evil.
I love the way you hate me, me you said would never class up with you. You call me brother but I feel like a stranger in this land.
Must everyone belong to the oc/cult class?
I love the way you hate me. I’m still smarting from the smack of Mrs Smith who loved me with crumbs but never desired me to sit at the table for a feast.
I love the way you hate me. When you say, ‘HELLo!’ across the street. Sometimes we almost shake hands, almost share a meal, almost succeed together, almost triumph over existential forces that you created.
We live through our days marked by almost and nearly and all but and . . . because your insecurity is beyond the scale of Ukraine’s.
I love the way you hate me when you zoom past in the streets, waving thankless hands. When your space ship circles Plaza and disappears into the Wellington ethers, where superior aliens live in Gothic seclusion.
I just love the way we sing at variant tunes, songs of sorrow and songs of praise. We hold hands in church and sing to the same Creator. But I know that all fingers are not equal. Even the Creator knows.
So you sing in praise while I sing in hmmmm. . .
I love the way you hate me. I am still locked in the love of your loath. I panick whenever you raise your entitled voice, when your bloodied hands wave to God in church.
I love the way you love me; it is the love of the cat and the mouse. I may run but I know I will get tired and will be eaten and licked. But I’m still running. . . Running from your love, oh sorry, hate.