Loathing

There is something special
about that word.
Loathing like slime glistening
slugs beneath bare feet.
Yes, this is what I feel.
Bile rises up in my throat,
my heart sinks,
the smile forced curls my lips;
I loath you.
Hate is not the right word.
Hate is clean, brilliant white.
This is darkness and filth
permeating my skin when you
touch my cheek to say
I love you.