After Church

I hate her.

I hate her because you still think about her. I hate that you say she's perfect, that when she sings, she exhales nightingales, the line of her a G cleft, sitting primly on the edge of the bar, waiting for you to fill in her notes. She is Venus incarnate. What is a pimple? She doesn't know. I hate how you spill your javanilla when you talk about her eyes. Lilies, you say, she let me pick some, but I ended up taking too much so she cast me out of her garden.

I want you to negate her. She doesn't exist, she was a bad dream, you made her up, she never loved you, she never will. What must I do to make you forget? I am all you need. I can be a G cleft, plump and full of promise, I can sing, though instead of nightingales, crows will fly.

I can drown you, but only after I let you swim my depths.