the hate

there is within me
a without
that wants out
wants to pop me
like the soap bubble
it knows i am.

there is without me
a without
that wants in
the pressure of eyes
and the edges of mouths
waiting to curl up or down,
to shape words that
cut sharper than the teeth
concealed.

there is a me
that is barely me
that holds together
patchworks and compromises
that redraws the map
and replays the chessboard
every moment negotiating
with hurricanes and earthquakes.

sometimes
a face
is a dream of me
the me that would live
without without
and within within
a me i once must have
believed in-
must have-
before i learned
how much i
hated it,
hated me.