You have come to me asking,
do I despise you.
The simplest answer is no.
When you stumbled into my bedroom
and trod on my toes
as we clumsily waltzed through the kitchen,
holding hands like something
wounded and delicate,
little by little I began
to weave you into my future.
When you were angry,
when you spat in my face
and shoved me into the wall
before moving on to
pummel your best friend,
I stood by you
with a smile cracking on my face
and a dreadful love in my belly.
When you let me know
how stupid I really way
I swallowed my better judgment
and believed you.
And even when my feet
and my self-preservation told me
to carry myself away from you,
my loneliness kept needing
a part of you, a sounding board,
the object of frustrated affections.
In all of this I never detested you.
But when you refuse
to let sleeping skeletons lie,
pick the scabs of all my yesterdays,
expect a majestic reunion
as though you were not terrifying,
I am drawn closer
to learning how to hate.
Copyright (c) 2001
by Beth Kinderman. This is my original
work, so please respect it.