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Toeing the Love-Hate Line

By stephcartz

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Holidays would not be the same
without the inevitable, clumsy

head rush rage
of the love-hate
fine line;

rearing its ugly battle cry
in tune with car horns
catcalls,
the occasional
perma-tanned wolf whistle.

I could scream
at every cocksure glance
to reflective surfaces

every double-take.

I am bitter, but sugary sweet
like condolences.
Malleable to compliments
but composed of ice,

tiptoeing the love-hate line
tightrope tight.

She is tripping delicately
sun-worshipping,
a spit-roast pig to my
carving knife.