“It’s just a little kernel of hate,” I say, as I roll it over and over again in the palm of my hand.
Tiny and green, full of potential, ready to sprout.
“I take it home,” I say, as I pop it in my mouth.
Just like pop corn, chew, munch, chew.
I take you home and set you on the windowsill so I can look at you and see you every day.
Just like the mug that holds safe my toothbrush by the sink.
I watch and I wait, it’s like Christmas. When will you pop and sprout out the top of my head like a fucking lemon tree, you bitter little bastard?
No, I say. A kernel so perfect should be coiled up and kept safe, as I turn your face away, the face that’s on the mug. I’m done having you watch me and my kernel.
Little kernel, you’ve been planted in the best place I could find. My heart. Gulp and swallow, choking back, until I shit you out and the process starts all over again.
Hate is now too strong a word for you. “But perhaps it’s the most appropriate,” I say, and I crush my little kernel into the ground, grinding it’s pulpy insides out like a tick gorged on my blood.
“Do you know what I want to do to you?” I say to the face on the mug. I want to crush you like that kernel, until your juices flow, until your pulpy insides are mixt with dirt, until you cry your soul out through your eyes. Then maybe I won’t hate you quite so much.