.montreal poem.

Sleeping two to a narrow mattress,
I was made the bedfellow of hysterical hate.
You came home at midnight, fat belly stretched full,
And you had eyes like Jesus on the cross.
You were always the victim. No blame fell to you.
I, meanwhile, chewed my lip to shreds:
Hunger and hatred gave me a taste for blood.
In the reeking halls of the filthy slum
Where you had installed us, I lurked like a wraith,
Like an unfit spirit, refugee from hell,
And a thousand accents bounced off the dank walls.
Oui. Je deteste. How could I not?
It was the only choice I could make.
Oui. Je tu deteste. And you've always known it.
Your hands reaching out to me were, at best, lies.