a little tired, i hate.

it has been a while
since running about under a washing line
naked in the rain
has happened

I have sent letters
hoping to make sense
of no sense
and been left

once again
cold by an absence
of reason

where there should be
understanding
there is not

where there should be
affection
there is not

you should give me
back a watch, and the hours in it.

so I don't have to doubt myself.
or my ability
to be everything you now regret.

to walk into a room
decorated with things
i made home with

to burning sheets in the garden
drinking small paper packages
making coffee

slaving like a pig, for a pig. on our pig farm, just burning the fat.

a man who took the last piece of my dignity
and pissed it against a wall
the asked for forgiveness

i will never let the water slip by under the bridge for you.
sweet stains on my pillow,
and a prickles in my side

i burnt holes in the girl i used to be.

I cut off all my hair to be the man
i thought you wanted,
or did not know.
you wanted.

i hate
         i hate.
i hate
I am exhausted by my hate, and my success feels like sweet nothing.

because i was not with you, am not with you.
cannot ever trust you, and you tell me no,
then yes,

then sorry,
then all I ever thought I had

pissed up against a wall.

I hate
        i hate.
I hate, to be the one you mail.

forget,
to hate.
forget to trust, they are
the same
only older
uglier
more sure of themselves
sue of their inability to be anything other then

disappointment
and shame,

oh
i hate.