I hate

how you make me miss you,

how you have occupied my thoughts

and perhaps being

the reason for the tarnish

upon my skin to have

returned,

scaly, dragon-like

and festering, biding its time

in which before the eruption and

the chemical disaster spill

combine

to infect every pore of my blistered skin

and I potter in darkness

away from the sun,

Marlowe stanced and not get over excited;

I hate

how I miss you.

 

I hate

that you took away my right

to go when the pain becomes too much

just because you were greedy,

a liar, a fool and

yet I would still pierce your blood

upon the cross because I share

some resemblance

to your tiresome foolishness,

but not enough to cause you

a single nightmare

filled sleep, ravenous, bed sweating, word driven therapy

in which I now feel placed

like a cuckoo egg

when that home should be yours…

I hate

that I will never see your blue

eyes again to be able to tell you that.

Ian D. Hall 2015