(on girl-hate and other distractions)

The way it all happened makes me sick to my stomach.
In the darker hours I have hated you
and myself
and you again
but I’ve put all my hate in many a wrong basket.

It is not for you nor I to apologise
just as it is not for the fighting fish to apologise
for the years of inbreeding that left it sickly and stunted,
doomed to an early death.

Bred in beautiful colours
Bred to fight to kill
circling,
fins flared,
like jelly wrestlers on display
for leering eyes to see.

Pitted against our sisters
Distracted by the hate they taught us
Distracted from a truth oft repeated but seldom felt:
That we are in the same damn fish bowl
Little fighters
Thrown around in a never ending storm.