I Hated You Sometimes

 I Hated You Sometimes

By Teijo Tso


I hated you sometimes, 

Or often, I suppose.  

I awoke, on occasion, jolted. 

My weak throat ragged 

And choked. 

You ripped me open with jagged teeth, with sharpened bone. 

I still know all too well, all too close,   

The perverted thoughts of loathing that you provoked. 

The way you gagged me, 

The way you caught my neck in a yoke, 

You broke me. 

Left nothing but the empty,  

Wet, still fleshy, raw skin scars that you would poke, 

Sharply angled, perfectly tuned to be obtuse, perfectly 

Groomed to shred open a dirty crimson shotgun wound; a wound with  

Stringy little bits and limply hung up lumpy pieces, a wound you 

Burrowed into deep, seeping in like a disease, a wound you 

Latched onto and attacked, hacking at my rapidly cracking and 

Fractured back,  

Packing me full.  

Bristling me with, a thousand viciously inconspicuous thumbtacks, 

Blackened with the maggot slick venom of your  

Dirty, syllabic spit, and with the 

Anesthetic filth that spills, acidic, from that 

Worm ridden, word rotted, septically syntactic,  

Putrid and hot, puss-choked and morphemic, 

Memphitic cesspit that I 

Hated sometimes, 

Or often. I suppose 

Hate could be a 

Strong word, 

Though 


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