Crawling under a rock
Never getting out of bed
Taking up hard drugs
destroying something.
This big lump of hate in my chest
spreading like a cancer through me
threatens to touch my fingers,
my toes,
my head.
There's no cure that I know.
Afraid. Bitter. Cold.
It lurks in the shadows of every passing minute
waking or sleep.
Traces of it hidden in everything I touch
or taste
or feel.
Accents hidden in every word.
Not a passionate hate.
Frozen.
Apathetic.
After years of black fire
burning slowly in my soul
only embers remain
glowing softly.
A tired hate.
