How I hate you, other girl,
is not how I hate myself.
It’s not even how I hate the story
you want to hear while we bunk PE,
imagining me soaking at your shoulder
like it is a desert and my apology is the hose.
I am not some rubber attached to a tap.
I am not even the tap.
I am the whole fucking hydration system.
I am the reservoir dug low in your thinking
and piped back through your brain.
I am the structure that keeps you flicking
that gives you the sense to even know you
are in pain.
I am the dam. You build me because you want me.
You see your own face, which is never my face,
across the surface of it and understand
that how I hate you
is how I look at you at all.