Hate

I can't help it, it's what I am. Hate with a capital H. You think there's someone under these clothes, there isn't, there's just Hate left. Whatever skin you see is long dead and held on by sheer disdain for everything to the rotten, putrid core of Hate beneath.

People use the word Hate too much, I think. I thought about using another word. Loathing, but loathing is romantic, personal. There's nothing romantic about what I feel. All the the time, with an echoing Hate in a hollow mind.

I won't deny some fault. Maybe there were points on the path that led me here, I could've steered away, turned away from all this Hate. But if there was, I didn't take it. I stayed true to my course, true to my cause, my lighthouse of Hate.

It's not so bad, being Hate. On your own, you can fester and call it growth. Dig a hole while sinking and convince yourself it's motion. The problem comes from happiness. Like shadow and light, Hate is nothing next to joy. When a ball of Hate is next to joy, it must seethe below the surface, and this bundle of loose nerves and glorified filth badly masquerading as a man must ask "what am I if not Hate?"

Long story short, I was a distant friend's wedding today. I wish them the best, but the echo, I keep. Hate.