i hate gravel in my shoes,
i hate wet sand on my hands,
gritty tastes that scratch my palette,
and i hate lies
spit out of mouths, that i bought, i bought,
ate up and savored.
but like slits, a teasing sting,
a fixed reminder of the things that could have been.
i step back,
to better see beyond my outline.
i hate nervous eyes. don’t hide them
or i will fold back lids and fold back arms,
i’m pacing back and forth,
i hate the sound of alarms
foreshadowing a rerun day,
another number, an idle countdown,
i hate bad news. i hate the aftertaste
of spoiled plans that linger, leak
and infiltrate the mind.
i hate these broken intervals of time.