Hate.
Flames lick the muscles
Into a slow tense smoldering burn
The idea that it might be
Wrong
Keeps them at bay
But
The temperature rises
The pressure builds
And the fuse grows
Short.
Hate.
Harsh words
Stern looks
Rude gestures.
No contact.
Love.
Is all about touching
And muscles moving
And relaxing
But these muscles erupt
And this fire beats the natural beauty
Black, and blue.
Love.
It must hurt to be
Loved
Like this.
To the medicine cabinet
To the doctor’s office
To the emergency room
To the morgue.
Love to hate
Hate to love
All mixed up
Can’t he see
Hide the hurt
Hurt the help
Help
Help
Help!
On deaf ears, and lookaway glances
Pretending it doesn’t happen
Won’t make it go away
-6 Feb 1996