I’m not an alcoholic. This is temporary.
If I want to then I will. If I don’t then I won’t.
If I cared I would say it, but I don’t and I don’t.
I can only say in so many words or phrases,
In rhymes, in so many measures or so many times
That I hate myself. Goddamn I fucking hate myself.
You can find me in the middle of everything
You ever wanted me to be: the tree of knowledge
And the weed of life, the disease of your poor fathers
And the swift relief of all your poor sweet mothers’ strife.
I am in between the tear drops my mother cries for
Her only begotten son. I am the lonely one,
The cause of pain, and yet not wet from the salty kiss
Of rain; I remain unstained, untethered, and unblamed.
And I hate myself. Goddamn I fucking hate myself.
It’s not so much the me inside that wants, feels, or deals
With all the “Oh, fuck me”s of life; it’s the I that is.
I hate him and all that is his: Never saying no,
Never letting go, never not fucking it all up.
There are others I hate almost as much as myself,
Such as your one imaginary friend in the sky,
The one responsible for all the joy in your life,
And yet the one who just sat by and watched my son die,
Persona non grata number two: I hate your god.
Or is it not your imaginary god I hate,
But the imagination your god incorporates?
I hate that tiny little god-shaped space that’s between
Love and hate, you and yours, “No, fuck you” and “Oh, fuck me.”
My son died on June 6, 2006—6,6,6—
And since that day I have been and hated many things:
An addict, a drunk, a bum, and a failed this or that.
I have worn many hats colored in false positives.
Persona non grata number one and number two:
Goddamn I hate myself and goddamn I hate your god.
Goddamn I hate that there is nothing either of us
Can do sometimes but say “Oh, fuck me” and “No, fuck you.”
Goddamn I hate that I hate, but I hate and I wait.
I’m like god. Imaginary. Ineffectual.