Sometimes my hate’s like a lacquer.
It’s toxic and sludgy and slow. It’s gorgeous, and shiny, too. I poured it in the place between my lungs and my conscience so you can’t come between my breaths and my better decisions. I brushed it across the side of my stomach to stop me from shaking. I used it to seal up the snarls of my hair. I huff it before I sleep, and in the morning it’s heavy and sticky and sick. I wake sitting sideways, just in case I have to kick.
Sometimes my hate’s like a lip gloss.
It’s slippery and see-through and pink. It tastes the kind of happy that comes from a fake strawberry factory. I think it makes me prettier, but really it just keeps me too young to rein. Not that I’m aiming or anything.
Sometimes my hate’s like a laugh, the one you coughed out when I said, “I hate you” as if I were really saying, “Thanks for the wine” or “You’re funny,” or “I’m fine.” Like the laugh I gave you when you tried to kiss me afterward. And the one I kept faking all the way home.
Tonight I think my hate’s like a liquor – a little makes things fun, enough makes things easy, but stay with it all night and you wake up empty and ill.
I guess I’d rather not have it, but I like shiny things.
[ANNIE BAKER - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]