I want to punch something. Simply for my satisfaction, let me punch,  kick, bite something.

Hate and fury devour like the flames of Greek fire. They will never go out. The exterior might appear jovial and even friendly,  but they linger like a bad smell.  Under the surface, they linger. Behind brown eyes, the flames leap high;  it is just so easy to hide when you are having fun.

And then it stops. The laughter fades and the smiles flicker, and once again,  the lingering loathing resurfaces. Hatred of the world,  of the light,  of the self.

Someone speaks and it retreats,  relinquishing its authority temporarily.  Quick as a lizard’s tongue it darts in and out, allowing me to speak and conceal in one moment. It returns with the silence, with the stillness of thought, in the dead of night, and in the early morning.

Loathing of the deepest, strongest kind – loathing of the very air I breathe,  the sights I see, and most of all,  the thoughts I think.


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