I Hate You

I hate the roar of your “gruff voice,”
the look of your face skidded with grease,
your smile when accelerating toward yet another
stupid idea.
I hate it almost too much.

I am fuming now with fists
of smoking anger
a face as red as crimson.
You have your stupid smile
half your mouth turned upward
like the lever when I turn right.

Today I was hit by your truck.
I fell to the ground,
my face leaking fluid all over the cold cement.
The more fluid that came out the more
my engine over heated.
Yet as I lay my head on the cement
I found it wasn’t what it seemed.
It was your shoulder.

Oddly, I was happy.
A smile spread across my face,
coolant brought my rage to an easy 210 degrees.
I used my thumb to wipe the grease from your face
as your wipers cleared my face of fluid.
But the more I used my wipers
the more you disappeared.
I turned them on higher power
and clouded my windshield as
you smeared away.