I hissed at the corner of the coffee table
that had jumped out at me
from the darkness of my midnight-lit room
and bit my shin.
for the burning moments while the pain ran up my leg
I had a chance to pause and breathe deep
the night-sounds of cicadas
for the furniture in my room to tell me to slow down
and dance awhile
but hatred is a sweeter fruit
sweet as blood from the tip of my tongue
dribbling over my chin as I spit out curses
chewing on seeds like hot coals
damning the darkness as if it had an ear to listen.
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