I hate to hate.
It’s an all consuming tumour
that grows and deviates.
I loathe these loathings,
but my loathing’s at an eight.
I raise my score card high
and give out my bold rating
because I can’t continue placating
a lazy oaf and broken wife;
to him she went for a walk,
to me she held a knife
to her wrists and pressed down hard.
Hard enough to leave ravaged scars.
This woman, desperate, on her knees
is my mother, mother please,
save yourself from these raw feelings
and take the rope down off the ceiling.
I know that you are grieving
the woman you once were
and the man that he once was
and I know it hurts, it fucking hurts
that he thinks you went to walk.
He can’t even talk about it while
My mind shouts, it shouts enraged
that he is at a loss, completely disengaged.
You are both coming to an age
where the focus should be one-on-one,
not subtle snipes and blinkered eyes
where no one bothers to even try.
He thinks she went for a walk
and I really hate to hate
but right now I want to shake him
and wake him up with cutting words
and slit open eyes.
Steps away from the sea
isn’t going for a walk
and if you refuse to talk or
look and see
and make things better
through your own responsibility
as a husband to a sick wife
then what happens next
is round your neck
like an albatross or coarse noose
that you will never shake away or lose.
May you live with it
and may it burn with friction
from your lack of acknowledgement,
care or diction.
and may it prick and cut like little knives.
May you drown from the guilt
of your sickly wife’s actions.
This is my poor mother; mother please,
Get up off your fallen knees.
Know your worth and know your pain;
make changes so this won’t repeat again.
I hate to hate this man, my father;
for hate consumes and deviates;
but I hate this situation
and this blind, blinkered ugly state.
“He thinks she went for a walk”
spins in my sickened, breathless head.
She was walking, walking, walking, Dad,
she was walking to her death.