Diatribe for the decadent

I hate...

the way we communicate, no, really the way we fail to communicate.
it is never my goal to make you feel this way.
never.
and yet, here we are another night and we talk at eachother, in your language, of course, and no one listens to anything but their own pain and insecurity, their own treasonous thoughts, their own anger and regret, their own failed expectations.

I hate...
the rain on my glasses as I ride, creating a crystalline prism of blinding light.
and the tears that are dripping, shamefully from my tear ducts.
the cold seeping into my bones.
the tired, sorry song being played again and again.


I hate...
feeling like the failure that I am.
that I let you cast a shadow over my belief in my intrinsic worth as a human being.
that there is never a tissue near by when I need one.

I hate...
the silence that I want to adhere to.
that you have once again proven me incapable of staying away from where I promised myself I wouldn't go.
fearing your censure, and your judgment and your hate.

I hate...
the thought of my life without you.
and my life with you.
and my fear of the unknown.

I hate...
feeling like I am under your thumb.
pinned to my needs, indebted to you, together with you.
alone with you. alone by myself.
a lone wolf, prowling, and tearing at its bait.
a wolf incapable of remembering its mate.

I hate...
being the bad one, the evil one, the witch.
cackling from my tower.
excercising my substantial power over you.
self-destructing in a fiery mushroom cloud.
crying out loud, not being able to quiet my pain.
freezing inside and outside - the rain pours, like blood.

I hate...
my legacy.
that I cannot be someone else, from somewhere else.
irresponibilty, impunity, human filth devoid of caring.
my (in)humanity.

I hate...
that I cannot fix things with the wave of a hand.
a royal pardon, a goodbye.


I hate...
to hate.