I’ll Wash My Bloody Hands

I hate you.

Just thought you should know.

The way a mother hates a bum

is like the way I hate you.

I hate the way you say that you

hate

love

kinda like

poetry.

Make up your mind.

You can’t feel both.

By saying this

you make me want to go emo

on someone’s face

with an Expo marker,

drawing everything from a mustache to a monocle.

I can’t believe how much I hate you

with every fiber of my being,

every bit of me

from my stage make up caked face

to my white tulle tutu

to my black ballet slippers.

Every bit of me hates

everything about you,

your perfectly groomed hair,

your perfectly high arabesque

which mocks me from just out of my reach.

I can’t believe how much I hate you.

You wouldn’t believe the things I done

in this notebook

written things about you

thought about rumors I could start about you

drawing heinous drawings with poles stabbed through your feet

so you can never dance again

or something ridiculous like

a swarm of rabid bats

stealing your dance bag

so you fall out of favor with the teacher

for forgetting your bag

and trying to give her some lame excuse for not being prepared for class.

Just so you know

I hate you.