I threw up into the dark and wondered why the monsters wouldn't eat it.
I folded myself into complicated origami shapes
and wondered why nobody tried to unfold me.
I surfaced through a swamp full of muck just to take a deep breath.
I spat oxygen into trees and remembered that they prefer carbon dioxide.
They don't love me.
Nobody does.
I once chewed on bark and spat out blood.
I once swallowed sap and lost my taste for syrup.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it so much.

I fell down wrought-iron stairs once.
I wondered why my friend didn't find it funny.
I was hurt and out-of-breath, but he didn't even laugh.
He should have laughed.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him so much.

On my last night in the state,
his friend told me that they ****** each other's ***** once.
I promised not to tell.

The next time I go on a date,
I'll feed my date dates,
and I'll hate it.
I hate it.
I ******* hate dates.

If I ever fly a kite again,
I'll try my best not to think of every smug ******* who told me to do so.
I'll just let the string go,
and count all the swirls on my fingertips.
Squeeze the sand between my toes.
Kiss some innocent know-no-better
with the taste of salt-water on my lips.

I swear to God, I hate it. I don't even know what it is.
I hate it though, I hate it so much.
I hate it, anyway,
I don't even know what it is.