I don't hate you yet,
but it's close.
Rising in the back of my throat
like sick bile
right on the edge of spilling out.
All you would really have to do
is call one more time.
Ask if I'm okay,
weasel your way back in.
Get what you came for and leave.
Then the hate would come.
Spewing out and burning
through the bed we slept in.
Blowing all the gifts and all their strings
out the window to rest in the gutter.
Words I've kept to myself
like hot acid would melt
that sick smile off your face.