Hate on a Monday Evening

by Kaitlyn K

January 27, 2015

I hate things.

And that might be wrong of me.

(I hate admitting that.)

But I think much like love,

hate just comes about.

Into forms that foster

and threaten,

nurture and nash

ones soul,

yes.

But much like love,

it's tension's strung high.

And irresistible.

I hate the way staplers don't always work.

And the sound of unwelcome cutlery

against slate virginity.

I hate depression.

And the way it drowns you

like a cold, boiling shower.

I hate hate.

And it's prejudice.

If you hate,

hate all, not some.

At least you're predictable

in your insanity.

I hate loving.

And it's little nuances and rules

that rip you from reality

into torturous bliss.

I hate moving in circles.

And the nostalgia of grief it brings.

I hate complete and utter ignorance.

The kind brought on by stupifying joy.

I hate those people that can

find it.

Like finding a snack in a grocery store.

I hate everything,

those days hurt.

Mental, physical pain;

the soul at the chiropractor.

I hate nothing,

those days bring later hurt.

Emotional, grieving pain;

the soul peeking out the shades to a bright morning.

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