The Self, on Itself

I hate her.
I hate the way she thinks, rethinks,
thinks again without stopping,
pounding through my brain
like a restless tornado tearing
through Oklahoma farmland barns.

I hate the way she loves:
too deeply, too strongly, too forgiving—
I hate it when it hurts,
grabs her like a serial rapist,
throws her in the gutter.

I hate how she cries so much
in melted-diamond tears.
I want her to sparkle like that.
I hate how she doesn’t.

I hate how her soul
is sixteen different colors:
jade and turquoise,
sapphire-blue. The brightest
is violent red blaring through.

I hate her instability,
lack of courage, overwhelming fear
of the darkness that won’t
leave her alone.
I hate the way she hates me,
pushes me away—
drowning out my screams
and taunts until I’m thrown
into the recesses
of her twisted-corridor mind.

I hate her.
But I’ll creep back
To invade her complicated
crystalline thoughts.
I always do.