I hate your shoes,
the way you walk in them,
for how they put you in my way.
I hate your face.
I hate the sound of your breath before you speak;
I hate your voice and your language.
I hate how you spend your free time,
what you do in the privacy of your own home;
I hate you for not having a home.
I don’t care how often you bathe–
you’re *****, your smell disgusts me.
You disgust me.
I have no gavel or mastery of law
but **** right it’s my right
to judge you, judge you
not for the content of your character
but the content of melanin in your skin,
judge you for your father’s blood,
the sins of your children,
your womb and your lewdness,
your dreams and your waistline,
for the lovers you bring to bed.
I’ll burn down temples to share with you
the light of my God because
like you, yours is *****.
I will beat you ****** for the beliefs
that we do not have in common.
All men are not created equal,
you are beneath me.
I will judge you for your undeserved freedom.
This land is better off stripping the rights of all
than to allow the mistake of giving you any.
How dare you **** the blood for my land,
my children, my people.
I will do grotesque things in the name of hate.
I will do grotesque things in the name of purity.
And you need to be purified
and I hate you
because my God hates you.
Oh, you of little faith:
Repent! Or die.
There can be no peace
when sinners like you are so wrong.

This is not the first time
but it always feels as such,
always feels like the worst it could ever be.

It’s been so consistent lately
that I go to bed with the light on
just so I can see Death coming.
I stay up expectant of his arrival
like a child waiting for Santa
except I didn’t bake cookies.

It’s not that sort of visit.
But he’s not really coming, is he?
I’m not really dying am I?

I just don’t know anymore.
Logic has taken a vacation,
my heart has been left to the helm.
But he’s so preoccupied
banging furiously on the walls of his enclosure.
This ship is behaving erratically.

And then the alarm,
that **** infernal alarm.
A new days begins
when the previous never ended,
they just overlap, blur together
and I don’t know what’s really going on
or if I can continue living like this.

Don’t interpret that to mean I want to die.
But isn’t that what’s so awful about this?
You are just ripped from nothingness,
birthed into creation, never
allowed to make the choice to exist
but on days like this
you have to.

You can love the art,
but not the artist
and she says she is fond of
everything I write. She is,
perhaps, even my biggest fan.
But what she really means is:
“Tell me again how I’m beautiful
in ways the other boys won’t.
Tell me again how you’ll be here,
no matter how much I hurt you.”

Unrequited love is the best muse, right?
If I can’t be what she wants,
at least an extension of me can.
Some days, though, I trample through gardens
hunting dandelions with heavy breaths
wishing for nothing to say.