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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