Tuesday, September 01, 2015

Hate Poem

I hated the
greeting cards,
love notes,
and ticket stubs
I kept as reminders
long after you left,
so I unceremoniously
dumped them
on the trash heap
with the spoiled milk
and used kitty litter.

I hated that
you had to hide me from
your racist parents
for five years,
and
I hated how
when I tried to learn
their language,
your family made fun
of my pronunciation.

I hated those
Michael Bolton concerts
(yes, plural)
I took you to,
and I want those hours
back.

I hated how much
I tried to demonstrate
my faithfulness,
my love and dedication,
and that it still
only came down
to my paycheck,
and even that
wasn’t big enough.

I hated my weakness
for giving in to intercourse
that one last time,
and I hated
that I intentionally
hatefucked you
with more anger
than I ever knew before.

I hate that
someone convinced me
not to throw out
every single picture,
and that I still have
two snapshots of you,
hidden away,
proof of my failed
seven-year experiment
in self-debasement.

I hate that 21 years later,
I still remember
that September 1st
is your birthday.

[Written for RealToads at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/]

13 comments:

  1. Wow. What an ending. And I guess my comment has more than one meaning.

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  2. Oh dear. A very honest poem that many can relate to. Vivid details. Thanks, buddah. K.

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  3. Quite a poignant poem. The end...bam...really hit home. Just found your blog...glad I did. :-)

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  4. Powerful poem...still raw and intense feelings after 21 years.

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  5. Yeah... totally relate! Why do those thoughts, mundane memories and facts, still come front of mind? Argh. This is so well told, too, with humor to balance the frustration. Michael Bolton? *shudder*

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  6. This is incredibly authentic and raw and real. Damn fine writing, Mosk.

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  7. I feel for you.. and just the addition of Michael Bolton gave this just that added horrific dimension.. I really feel for you.. 21 years is a long time. Great lines.

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    1. Michael Bolton, yeesh. I was once dragged to a Whitney Houston concert at which Kenny G opened. It made me want to buy Thomas Kincaid paintings.

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  8. I always remember my ex's birthday, too. Weird, isn't it? It's been 14 years since my divorce. As others have said, this is really raw and honest.

    YOU, dear Mosky, seem to have been the only one who understood my magpie poem at all. My magpie was born into a tree of plenty, thinks the sun and stars revolve around it, and thinks "all that empty air below" should satisfy the second magpie that she clearly does not want to share anything with. I was inspired by the current mania about immigration, and all the millionaires harrumphing about it. But everyone thought it was just a pretty bird poem.

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  9. I have some of that hate all saved up, too. Including the remembering of the birthday. Excellent stuff.

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  10. Ouch, that's a lot of hate...which usually devolves from a lot of love. The birthday I hate to remember is July 14. You describe it painfully well.

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  11. Ouch... yes, don't we always carry these feelings with us, long after a relationship is over? I suppose it's a way of surviving, getting through. Those birthdays seem to be forever etched into our minds.

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