To Write About Hate

(NB. Not dedicated to anybody).

Drown a bitch in the jacuzzi.
That’s where her Perignon went.
Her left pinky was the last thing to sink.
Kinda apt, for somebody who doesn’t keep secrets.

She “swears”.

I have an angel dress upstairs
But I tilt my halo to the side for drama.
My fingertips are brown from the old blood under their beds.
My cuticles have tucked her flesh in like duvets.

She’s “sleeping”.

If I’m going to write about hate,
Let me slap the curtains shut together as if they were made of flesh.
If I’m going to write about hate,
You need to know that you’re going to hurt yourself in the process.

You will have a black shard in your chest.
And it will hurt as you stare into your nails,
Where you have scratched out her eyeballs,
And the remains are festering, watching you,

And you hold your head high like a modern day Macbeth.

I’m the one to write about hate,
And let me tell you something,
I don’t burn cigarettes in her arms very often.
But I wring the bloody towels into Sunday roast’s gravy often.

My family sips.

The gravy boat is full.
And I drown a bitch in the beef granules.
And I drown a bitch in the saltwater,
From the meat of my tear ducts.

I’m the one to write about hate,
And I can tell you something honest,
The crocodile tears I shed don’t catch the sunlight,
And I have a ruby for a heart.

It cuts through flesh, it cuts through glass, it cuts.

Drown a bitch in the jacuzzi.
I have her money now.
I wasn’t in her will, I’ll make me her final testament,
I wrote about the hate, and she gave me a penny, I am the boat man.

I gagged on her Perignon.
I loved it.
My teeth are stained in it.
My fingernails bloody.

The cat’s out of the bag, and here’s its corpse.

If I’m to write about hate,
I’m going to get hurt first.

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