Storing identity like drugs,
she took a dose of hatred,
but failed to read the amount
as it mixed with the love in her system.

Plucking a syringe from her collection,
she pinched her pink skin,
pretending to be a victim,
crying in the shower.

Heartache. Hostility. Hypocrisy.
Love and hate are fighting in her body,
with hope that love will win
when hate has the stronger dosage.

She threw out the syringe, not the drug.
The dose of hatred she loved,
The dose of love she needed.
There was not enough room
for both to sit in peace.

The anger was on the needle.
Its sharp point and curved body
enraged her drugged heart,
but not her own hand
that asked the opposites to dance.