Tired Hate

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.