I hate lace curtains
and their contortionist ways.
Their holes deforming
like Munch’s scream at the slightest tug—
underdogs in a futile cage match
against the day.
I hate them for their impotence
while holding all the strings. Gutted
like Geppetto without a puppet.
I’m repulsed by their magnetism—
trapping insects like carnivorous plants.
Tangling. Devouring.
Blooming like corpse flowers.
Absorbing nicotine stains like filters.
I hate them —
for bending me over the sink.
Scouring, soaking, scrubbing their yellow rind.
Bleaching.
Although I never recover anything truly pristine,
I hate them like virginity.
For peddling deprivation
as something delicate.
For straining the world through their colander,
as if the whole view
might lodge in my iris forever.
I even hate them for their kin on grandma’s table —
the white doily
under the chicken bowl.
The one she filled with hard candies.
The ones that made you choke.