I am the poison
born out of your marriage,

and you are the poison
running in my veins.

Our loves
are misunderstood -
I wish to transform
your face into a serpent’s head
and feel an aversion
to each memory of you,

and sometimes to slit open a wrist
and see your blood snaking
lazily
out of my body -
deep red and
viscous
with too much love,
with too much hate.

And all this because
we have emerged as failures
in our respective identities -
you, the fragile father,
I, the disillusioned daughter.

We step
on each other’s toes
and weaknesses;
it is a dance we do,
loving and unloving
our mingled past
our disparate pathos.

Perhaps
it is destined (and best)
to remain kin in name alone -
ceremonially,
superficially,
biologically
related -
and to appreciate
ourselves
as (each other’s) cyanide and arsenic -
poisons both of us,
different nonetheless.