Confession 101 Poem by Pratikshya Satapathy

Between nerve and nerve
something feels so broken.
The salt scalds,
and keeps the wound awake.
What cruelty,
to turn love into a mirror
that spits back unworthiness,
isn't that violence?
Is it wrong that you disgust me now?
Your touch,
shallow, daunting creeps,
cold water running
where it shouldn't.

I wish to at least be clean in my hatred,
let disgust sit in my mouth
without it rotting me from inside.
To choke on both,
on the sickness of loving
and the sickness of loathing,
as if my heart can't tell
which wound to bleed from first.

My Hamlet holds the skull,
and questions my silence,
which is more unholy-
to love you,
or to turn the blade inwards
and hate myself for it?